


Son of Oz

by Phantomdragon321



Category: RWBY
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Blood, Developing Friendships, Disabled Oz, Fantasy Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Magic, No OCs, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, no ships, tw: animal death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27932710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomdragon321/pseuds/Phantomdragon321
Summary: Summary: Ozma, injured and on the verge of death, miraculously makes his escape from The Witch and the terrifying Grimm under her command. He now spends his life on the run, forever hunted by The Witch and her beasts, alongside his best friends, Ironwood and Glynda, and a baby boy named Oscar. Watch the slow build of humanity from the ground up at the hands of Oz, future Keeper of the Relics, King of Remnant, and Headmaster at Beacon.Note: This is an AU that takes place during the times of ancient Remnant, where there is no technology (yet), no Huntsman Academies (yet), no semblances (yet), no Kingdoms (yet), and Ozma is still on his first reincarnation (here named Ozmund). The rest of the cast exists; they’re just tweaked to be a little more intertwined with the setting! I find Remnant’s “ye olden times” to be a pretty cool set piece, in which Dust, the Faunus, semblances, and Huntsman are all completely new concepts.
Relationships: Glynda Goodwitch & James Ironwood, Glynda Goodwitch & Ozpin, James Ironwood & Ozpin, James Ironwood & Ozpin & Glynda Goodwitch, Ozpin & Oscar Pine
Comments: 38
Kudos: 78





	1. Escape from the Wicked Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozmund escapes the Witch, and gains some companions.

Ozmund manages to flee, having stooped down to something desperate and violent. Something of which bastardized his honor as a warrior and shook him down to his core—something having to do with ice shards and Salem’s eyes. He struck her, in tears, with fury, with _hate_ , with terror, and he did it without mercy or pity.

 _Killed them,_ both of his souls screamed with betrayal, their hearts broken, sobbing as they sent icicle after icicle plunging into her body, _You killed them! You killed them! We hate you, we hate you, we hate you—WE HATE YOU!_

He heard her scream bloody murder as she receded under his vicious attacks. It wouldn’t kill her; Salem was an immortal being, same as he was. But it hurt her, and he wanted it to hurt. But even as he struck, his fingers burning with the output of his magic, he didn’t look. He didn’t want to look. Half of him still loved her. Half of him still felt sorry for her.

Her cries bit down into him, until he could no longer find the rage to keep attacking, sent down into a spiral of horror as the world caught up with him.

He didn’t look back.

He took to his feet and ran, ran, ran, and then kept running.

He heard her shrieks behind him, and he felt the heat of her attacks as they shot past him, failing again and again to hit their mark. When the blasts faded and her cries became too distant to hear, he still kept on pushing and running, until he became physically unable to go any further.

He fell into a walk, then a stumble. Without his staff—discarded somewhere during the scuffle—he fell to his knees. All he could do was go into a pathetic crawl, and hope to reach some inkling of safety.

Ozmund finally looks back. Though the grandiose castle they’d called a home was far out of sight, he swore he could still hear Salem’s shrieking. He waits for her to burst out of the shadows and come clawing after him. He waits for her to suddenly appear before him and rip his heart out. But she doesn’t.

He presses a hand to the deep wound in his side, of which still gushes blood. It’s warm and makes his clothes feel sticky. It rolls down his side and seeps into the dirt as he struggles to keep crawling, one agonizing shove at a time.

Ozmund has no magic in him to mend his wounds, drained completely dry after his attacks on Salem.

 _We’re not going to make it,_ the voice at the back of his head tells him.

 _Shut up!_ Ozmund shouts back at the voice. _We’re going to make it, Oz! We have to! For them! For the girls!_

The voice of Ozma is quiet for a moment, then he chokes free, _They are dead, Ozmund. They are dead;_ she _killed them… We were… We were too slow—I was too slow—_

 _I know!_ Ozmund bends over, coughing blood, gulping down large gasps of air, trying to keep his vision from blurring. _I’m trying to stay alive, so we can find a way to… We have to_ stop _her, Oz! She wants all of humanity to fall—wants to kill even more innocent children. We can’t let her! So… So I_ have _to keep going! I_ have _to make it! For_ their _sakes!_

Ozma once again goes quiet as Ozmund crawls on, continuously glancing over his shoulder in fear of Salem’s appearance.

Finally, Ozma says, _I’m sorry._

“What?” Ozmund asks aloud.

_I froze. I left you back there to fend for both of us—_

He coughs on more blood, rasping. “You wouldn’t have done what needed to be done.”

At that, Ozma goes silent. Through their connection, Ozmund can feel him agreeing with that fact. Ozma, the great warrior Ozma, had choked. He could only stare on in shock, and Ozmund couldn’t accept death. He simply couldn’t. So he took over when Ozma succumbed to their fate.

_You didn’t have to hurt her so terribly. Maybe we could have talked to her—maybe—!_

“Oz. She stabbed us—stabbed _you_ …” Ozmund glances down at the gash in his side, watching blood pool beneath him. “She wasn’t going to listen to reason… You saw what she did… What she did to the girls—”

He can feel the electricity of Ozma’s anxiety at the back of his head. If it were possible for a disembodied voice to hyperventilate, he was. Ozmund had to steady his own breath and push Ozma back down, for his fears were starting to leak through to both of them.

“Stop it, Oz! Calm down!” he wheezes. “Our lungs are barely holding up as it is—!” He chokes and coughs on more blood.

Ozma squeezes himself into a darker corner of Ozmund’s mind. _This is my fault—it’s all mine! The girls are dead, and it’s all my fault—I couldn’t protect them—I couldn’t…!_

While the ancient Wizard spirals, Ozmund bows his head, tears gathering in his eyes.

 _Ozma_ was supposed to be the strong one; _he_ was supposed to be the hero, the God of Remnant. _Ozmund_ , on the other hand, was weak and pathetic, a nobody farrier born in a town of thieves and liars. But it was the _Wizard_ going through a panic attack, not the Nobody.

He’d allowed Ozma to do what he wanted with his body. It didn’t really matter. Ozmund had nothing going for himself, and Ozma had been the one with the plans and the magic and the ideas. He just never let the Wizard completely merge with him, out of fear of what they would become, something of which even Ozma himself didn’t know.

But right now, _Ozmund_ was the one in charge. And while he very well might be just a socially inept fool—a silent participant lingering in the background of his own life—he’d _loved_ those girls. They were as much _his_ as they’d been Ozma’s. He’d say that he even came to love Salem, before she…

He grits his teeth, the tears spilling over. “Oz,” he chokes, “please. I need to live. I need to live and avenge them. And _stop_ her. I loved them so dearly, and she took them away from me! She—she took them away! S-so please! Shut up and help me— _help me, please_!”

Ozma finally seemed to settle a little. _I… I don’t know how—_

“You must be able to do _something_!” Ozmund begs, his head swirling from both his and Ozma’s tangled thoughts, the pain finally catching up to them.

_I… might be able to do one thing…_

“Then do it. I don’t care what it is— _just do it_!”

Suddenly, Ozmund feels a surge of heat go through his body. His breath hitches at the sensation. It isn’t painful. It’s just… shockingly warm. Natural.

Thoughts and emotions he hadn’t been fully aware of pull to the front of his brain. Memories of times he’d never lived flash across the backs of his eyes. Or… no. He _had_ lived them. These were both of their memories now. Ozmund was Ozma, and Ozma was Ozmund.

Ozmund blinks. He thought the world would feel different. Would look different. That _he_ would be different. Yet the only thing of difference was the amount of pain in his heart. It weighed more heavily, for Ozmund had been angry, but Ozma had been lost in despair. Now they were equal parts enraged and sorrowful, a combination of wanting to rip Salem’s throat out and wanting to curl into a ball and never get up again.

Ozmund places a hand to his side, summoning a portion of magic that had once only belonged to the Wizard. The gash in his side lessons to a slightly smaller cut. The worst of the bleeding stops. Though he doesn’t have enough magic to tend to his other wounds—the busted leg, the burns, the claw marks, the broken ribs—this, for now, is enough.

Ozmund struggles to get back up onto his feet, turning to look back at the castle one last time. Still no Salem. Was she in too much pain over what he had done to her to come after him? Or was she perhaps mourning, filled with regret at having killed their daughters in cold blood? Could she even _feel_ regret and loss anymore?

“O-Ozma? Are you still there?”

For a second, there’s a beat of silence, and Ozmund fears the worst, then—

_I’m here, Ozmund._

Ozmund scrunches up his face, gritting his teeth. _Then hear this. And take note of it._

He can feel Ozma’s mind sharpen into focus.

_To Salem, and to the parts of us that still love her: you may be immortal, but we will find a way._

A sob catches in Ozmund’s throat. He hates that they still feel sorry for her. He hates that they still feel for her at all.

It really does seem like both parts of them had loved her. And now, together, that love grows far more intense, and this becomes far more of a treacherous deed to swear to themselves. Yet they must. They have to. For the both of them. For their daughters. For the whole world. So they swear it, even though it breaks their heart:

_We will find a way to save humanity. And kill you, Salem._

\---

It was another boring day at the shop. It was simply another day he spent swiping the dust off the counter and trying to busy himself with another design.

James Ironwood lived a calm life. He didn’t mind it. Most of the time, he even quite liked it. He liked metalsmithing. The work was calming, and the complexity and intricacy of it at least kept his mind busy. But in between hammering and twisting precious metals, setting gems, and selling his specialty made necklaces, rings, brooches, and other jewelries, it got a bit too quiet at times. And a little lonely.

James finishes stretching, greasing, and loosening up a chain for a necklace he’d been working on for the past few days. He locks the two clasps into place and starts the final polishing process when a commotion comes from outside.

His grandfather would have scolded him for leaving a work lying around unfinished, and for abandoning the shop. Ironwood glances outside the window, resolute in staying. If he leaves, someone might break in and steal something.

He sighs and returns to his work. At his feet, a large dog lifts its head from its slumber and jerks it toward the shop door, growling quietly.

“Easy, Toto.” Ironwood reaches down and strokes one of the hound’s ears. “Probably just another Grimm,” he sighs. “Let the town guards handle this one. They can’t have us doing _all_ of the work for them…”

Ironwood finishes polishing and clasps the two ends of the necklace together, surveying his craftsmanship.

The commotion outside gets a little louder.

Ironwood glances back up at the door again.

Toto gets onto all fours, growling louder.

“Oh, alright.” Ironwood gets up from his chair. “We can at least take a peek, right?”

Toto tails him to the door and they both stick their heads out. A blast of cool, fresh autumn air hits their faces.

There’s a mob in the center of town, screaming and yelling.

“A Grimm, see? Gotta be.” Ironwood shares a glance with Toto. If it weren’t for the hound, he’d probably just stand around talking to himself. At least with Toto there, he felt a little, tiny bit saner. Sometimes he had to question himself on it.

They both study the crowd, watching them continue kicking and screaming at whatever is sitting in the center of all of them. _It’s a Grimm, James. Now that you’ve seen what’s up, get back inside._ Ironwood almost closes the door again before he hears the shout of—

“BURN HIM! BURN HIM AT THE STAKE!”

He stops mid-stride.

Another shout, “THE GRIMM ARE YOU AND THAT DAMN WITCH’S FAULT!”

“DEATH!” cries a woman. “DEATH TO THE WARLOCK!”

Ironwood finally manages to catch a glimpse of the form they’re huddled around. His heart leaps in his chest.

 _Shop be damned!_ Ironwood rushes out towards the crowd of people, Toto following at his heals.

“HEY!” he shouts, pushing through the hailstorm of flailing bodies, all trying to rip the person in the center apart. “BACK UP! EVERYONE BACK UP!”

Ironwood is a big man, tall and muscular. He towers over most of the people in the crowd and is able to easily catch their attentions. The crowd dissolves a little.

“IRONWOOD!” a man calls over everyone else. “IRONWOOD, IT’S HIM! IT’S THE WITCH’S HUSBAND!”

The crowd has already tied the man to a post, over a large stack of wood and hay. They likely would have set him on fire if Ironwood hadn’t intervened.

The man looks at Ironwood with frightened, teary brown eyes. His tan face stands out against his shock-white hair. His fanciful clothes are caked in muck and old blood. His wounds look severe, and very fresh. Had the townspeople done this to him?

No. Ironwood rejects that idea. Though the fire hadn't yet been lit, the man was already covered in burns. It was more likely that he came into town already injured. And whatever had done this to him, it had been mean and vicious.

Ironwood reaches up and pulls the gag out of his mouth. “Are you alright?”

The man nearly opens his mouth to answer, but he’s cut off.

“Ironwood! That man belongs to the Witch!” One of the townspeople comes up and puts a hand on Ironwood’s shoulder, pulling him away. “He’s _dangerous_! He can likely summon Grimm, too, like the wicked woman he belongs to!”

“I don’t not _belong_ to Salem!” rasps the man in a sharp voice. The crowd gasps, reeling back in fear at having heard the Witch’s real name spoken aloud. The man’s face falls from anger to grief. He stares down at the wood and hay at his feet. “Not anymore—”

“LIAR!” someone screams.

“But it’s true,” the man replies with a shockingly calm tone to his voice. “How else do you think I sustained these injuries—?”

“LIES!” More people shout.

“She’s going to kill all of you,” the man tries, sounding a little more desperate. “She’s going to—!”

“KILL THE WARLOCK!”

“PLEASE, LISTEN TO ME!” He begs, straining against the ropes tying him to the post. “YOU’RE ALL IN DANGER—!”

“HE ADMITS IT! HE THREATENS US!”

“JUST _LISTEN_ —!”

Someone ignites the hay and wood at his feet and the man strains harder against the ropes, pleading and begging. The people howl and cry, demanding for his painful demise by righteous flame.

Ironwood shoves a nearby town guard over and steals a sword from their hilt, cutting the ropes holding the supposed “Warlock” to the post. The man falls and Ironwood pulls him away from the fire, jerking the sword in the direction of the nearest guard, who had moved forward to try to stop him.

“ENOUGH!” Ironwood demands. “ANYONE WHO WANTS TO HARM THIS MAN WILL HAVE TO GO THROUGH ME!”

Though he’d never gotten the proper training with a sword—on account of his grandfather wanting him to learn the ways of the family business instead—Ironwood was still an intimidating figure, and one with a weapon, even if he didn’t know how to use it. He uses that to his advantage, squaring his shoulders and standing in a spread-out, defensive pose that makes him seem bigger than he really is. He stares coldly at the guards, daring them to approach.

Quietly, the guards and the townspeople back down, not calling Ironwood out on his bluff. As if he could _really_ take down seven guards and an army of townspeople all at once. He’d damn well try, but it wouldn’t be pretty for either party.

Sword still in hand, he dares to tear his gaze away from the townspeople, instead looking down at the man kneeling in pain at his feet. Ironwood silently extends a hand to him. The man studies it uncertainly for a moment before taking it.

Ironwood helps him up, pulling one of his arms over his shoulders and pushing through the crowd. He sends one last warning glance back as he and the man slowly make their way back to his shop, Toto following behind.

He makes sure to drop the sword back on the ground. It’s not like it belongs to him.

They shuffle inside and Ironwood pulls the man into the back, over to the staircase tucked away out of sight. The man strains against him a little.

“Sorry,” he mutters incoherently, “my leg…”

Ironwood quickly understands. He readjusts the man so that he can hold him up in his arms, as if he were a bride, and makes his way up one step at a time. Ironwood slips into the small room at the top of the stairs and sets him down on the bed.

The man grits his teeth, holding his ribs. “Th-thank you,” he wheezes.

Ironwood pulls the first aid kit out from under the bed. “Is it true?” he asks. “Are you the Witch’s husband?”

The man is silent for a little too long and Ironwood glances up at him again, watching as tears slip down his dirt-stained face.

“No,” the man finally says, “no, not anymore.”

“Ozma.”

The man looks at him sharply.

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Ironwood asks. “Ozma?”

“No,” the man says once again, though looking a little less certain. He hesitates. “Well… _partly_.” He weakly holds out a hand to Ironwood. “It’s Ozmund.”

Ironwood glances at the gloved hand for a second, wondering what he’s gotten himself into. Is he really about to harbor the husband of the Witch? The man who had posed as a God several years before, claiming, alongside his wife, that the Grimm would trouble humanity no more. Yet despite that claim, the Grimm still raged, ripping apart families and plunging the world into chaos and darkness. Hopelessness.

Ozmund finally lowers his hand, realizing that Ironwood wasn’t going to take it. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “I… should have realized… By the Brothers,” he swears, “did she ever really love ‘im? I should have stopped her… Before she…” He shakes his head, tears slipping down his face. “Maybe you should have let them burn me. It would have been just.”

“Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t have done,” Ironwood snaps, a bit too forceful. “It was my choice to make. Just don’t do anything to make me regret it. Alright?”

Yet Ozmund doesn’t seem to hear him. He closes his eyes, slurring, “He should have never accepted that deal… Now we’ll never get to see them… Never… _Never_ …”

Ozmund’s breath steadies as he passes out.

Ironwood watches him for a second before continuing to rummage through the medical kit. It might be easier to do this while he’s asleep anyway.

\---

Ironwood, though kind and gentle in his own ways, appears to intimidate most of the townspeople. When prompted to explain, he tells of the story of how, when his parents died, he went to live here with his grandfather. He was sixteen at the time, already grown tall and muscular.

As soon as he arrived, many of the townspeople began gossiping that _he_ had probably been the one to kill his parents. Even now, roughly some eight years later, the rumor still stuck around. After his grandfather died, leaving the business to him alone, there came the rumor that Ironwood had killed him, too.

Ironwood promises the rumors aren’t true-of which Ozmund reluctantly believes. The man states that even though most of the townspeople fear him, he still has a handful of customers who trust him and go to him whenever they’re seeking specialty jewelries. Those faithful customers are what keep his business afloat, along with the occasional outsider who goes to him out of curiosity, hearing of a “scary man who crafts the finest trinkets the land has ever seen.”

From what Ozmund can deduce, Ironwood was a reserved soul, protective and strong-willed. Any time one of the town guards or townspeople arrive, demanding the death of Ozma the Warlock, Ironwood always drives them off. He doesn’t need to do much. Just puff out his chest and glare a little. Then off the townsfolk go, scrambling away in fear.

“What did you see in the Witch, anyway?” Ironwood mutters, rebandaging the burns on Ozmund’s forearm. It was sure to scar, the flesh melted and twisted, red and angry.

Ozmund looks up at him tiredly.

Though most of his strength had returned, he still felt drained, likely from all the days he spent wondering about Salem and whispering prayers to the Brothers to protect his little girls. Wherever they may rest now. He spends his nights unable to sleep, waking from the same nightmare over and over again.

Then he sobs until morning, pretending Ironwood can’t possibly hear him, despite his makeshift mattress sitting on the floor, only a few feet away. Ozmund still feels guilty about taking up the bed, despite Ironwood’s constant insistence that it was alright.

Ozmund isn’t entirely sure how to answer Ironwood's question. Everything he’d used to like about Salem felt warped and twisted now. Besides. She wasn’t really _his_ love to begin with. “She was… Determined. Calculated. She was… at the time, gentle and kind… Or perhaps… She was only gentle and kind to us— _me_ , I suppose, and our daughters. I don’t… I don’t know, really. She must have lied a million times, and I had never realized it.”

Ironwood stares at Ozmund for a moment. “D… _Daughters_ …? You have daughters?”

Ozmund realizes he hadn’t mentioned them until now. He looks away. “ _Had_ daughters…”

Apparently, Ironwood focuses on the other implication of that news. His face turns sour. “You slept with the _Witch_?” His voice goes flat with disbelief. “ _The Witch?_ ”

Ozmund blinks rapidly at that. “I’m sorry. Is there some _other_ route to procreation that I am simply oblivious to, Mr. Ironwood?”

Ironwood stares at him, his mouth agape, saying again, _“You slept with The Witch?”_

“I—yes! I slept with The Witch!”

“And that was… _pleasant_ for you?” Ironwood asks seriously, squinting incredulously at him.

Ozmund makes a face, which has gone hot with embarrassment. _Was it? Had it been?_ He didn’t know. He’d locked himself in the prison of Ozma’s head for _those_ parts. _Gross. And with_ my _body, too…_

“M-maybe! I don’t know. _Why_?!”

Ironwood puffs his cheeks and blows air out of his mouth with a _pffft_! “Ozmund! It’s…! That’s…! With The _Witch_?! Were you… _intoxicated_? Or perhaps there’s some magical spell that makes her appear not so… downright _terrifying_?”

Ozmund finds himself surprised by Ironwood’s laughter. It’s the first time he’s heard it during these few weeks of knowing him. “I… well… at the time—! Well, actually…” He shakes his head. “Can you keep a secret, Mr. Ironwood?”

Ironwood clears his throat, his laughter dissolving. “Uh… sure?”

Ozmund leans forward, shaking his head and saying a little too quietly, “Truthfully, _I’m_ not the kind of man who partakes in such things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… It’s…” Ozmund struggles for the right words. “N-not _my_ cup of coco, per se. Never has been.”

“What?” Ironwood glances him over. “Are you saying you’d rather have lied with men, Ozmund?" He quirks a brow. "My Gods, is the Witch really _that_ bad?”

Ozmund snorts. “No, it’s not _that_!"

Lying instead with men _was_ an option he’d seriously considered for a while. Lucky for Ozma, that wasn’t the case, or he would have _never_ agreed they go find Salem in the first place. Though, he’d still been partially been against it. Because _Ew. Do I_ have _to do the romance and the sex and all of that gross stuff with your scarily gothic girlfriend?_

Ozma had laughed, seemingly bemused, and Ozmund had dropped the subject. Things had unfolded and taken shape from there, and Ozmund simply opted to lock himself away whenever the two engaged in anything remotely romantic or intimate.

“Truthfully, Mr. Ironwood,” he finally says, “ _I’d_ rather lie with nobody at all.”

“I see.” Ironwood shrugs. “Still doesn’t mean that it didn’t happen. Multiple times, supposedly, considering you had more than _one_ daughter.”

“Ah, my girls were quadruplets, actually—”

“Bless you.”

“That… That wasn’t a sneeze, Mr. Ironwood.”

“I’m just going to pretend it was. Also. Again. Doesn’t change the fact that you and the Witch did it _at least_ once.”

“So what?”

“My Gods, Oz!” Ironwood exclaims. “ _You_! Had _sex_! With _the Witch_! That’s madness—absolute _madness_! Is everything else about her just as absolutely _terrifying_ as her face is?! Do her nether regions have _teeth_?! Come on! You’ve got to give me _something_!”

“You are the worst, Mr. Ironwood! Simply the _worst_!” And yet, Ozmund also finds himself laughing for the first time in a very long time.

“James, actually,” Ironwood interrupts.

“Pardon?”

Ironwood holds out his hand. “James. You can call me James.”

Ozmund looks at his hand for a moment, then reaches out and clasps it firmly with his. “Well, _James_. As I said. You are simply the worst.”

\---

It’s a few weeks more before Ozmund is back on his feet. Well… actually, not _exactly_. He’s left with a crippling limp that he can’t seem to shake. His leg aches horribly, the pain coming and going in waves of varying strength.

Plus, there was another problem.

He couldn’t sense Ozma anymore.

At first, he didn’t think anything of it. When he first woke up, he was in so much pain and turmoil, he didn’t even notice. Then the days went by, and then weeks. Now, he was starting to get concerned…

As he’s sitting there in bed, trying to summon the ancient Wizard, James comes to his bedside with something long wrapped up in a cloth. “Here,” he says, handing it to him.

“What is this?” Ozmund asks, surprised.

“My grandfather taught me a few things more than just how to make jewelry.” Ironwood removes the cloth, revealing the beautiful cane underneath. “For your limp.”

Ozmund trails his hands down the cane, then picks it up. There was a good weight to it. “Thank you, James. This… means a lot to me. Though I can see it being used as more than just a walking stick.”

“How do you mean?”

Ozmund sends him a mischievous glance, then points the cane in the direction of a mug sitting halfway across the room. He sends some gravity magic through the cane to float it over to him. Magic was easier to control when the user had something to channel it through, and the cane was certainly strong enough to handle the output.

Ozmund holds up the mug with a grin and Ironwood balks at it. “So it’s true! You _are_ a Warlock!”

If Ozma had been conscience inside of his head, he would have likely scolded him for using magic for no reason. Maybe it was a good thing he wasn’t at the moment.

“I do, but I prefer the term wi _zard_ personally. Sounds... _kinder_. Salem does have magic as well. So did… so did our daughters.”

“I only ever heard the rumors. About Salem and you. About how you promised to keep humanity safe, and about how people worshipped you— _still_ worship you, even…”

“I know. But… I am no God. It was a mistake to have ever dared pose as one. What I have is simply something humanity used to be born with, a long, long time ago… And of which now they are not, all because of both Salem. Because of all of our mistakes…”

Ozmund glances at Ironwood’s face. He’s evidently confused by all of that, but he doesn’t seem to want to pry. He simply nods and pats his shoulder. “Do you want to attempt walking with it? Try it out?”

Ozmund smiles, once again surveying the cane. “That would be—”

 _BANG_!

Ironwood jerks his head around and stands. “Stay here,” he says before rushing out of the room.

Ozmund hears his footsteps recede down the stairs. A bout of angry shouting follows.

Something else breaks, another something falling with a thunderous crash. More voices add on to the shouting. Despite Ironwood’s warning for him to stay put, Ozmund gets out of bed. He takes a deep breath and forces himself to take a few steps, one at a time, until he gets used to the motion of using the cane for balance and stability.

He nearly stumbles all the way down the stairs, but through grit and willpower, he manages to keep himself upright. When he reaches the bottom, he finds Ironwood being detained by two guards, his shop in ruins, and people screaming outside.

“YOU CAN’T GET AWAY WITH THIS ANY LONGER, IRONWOOD!”

“TRAITOR! HE WORKS FOR THE WICKED WITCH! TRAITOR!”

“BURN THEM! BURN THEM BOTH! MAY THE GODS HAVE AT THEM!”

The guards start to pull Ironwood outside. He sees Ozmund as he struggles against the guards, trying to bat at them, kicking and clawing. He screams, “OZ! GET BACK! DON’T LET THEM—!”

_CRASH!_

The window of the shop breaks and people start clamoring inside, trying to get at Ozmund.

“THERE HE IS!”

“GRAB HIM! GRAB THE WARLOCK!”

Ozmund grits his teeth and forces them back with a green blast of gravity magic from his cane, sending them sprawling onto the floor. He hurries after Ironwood, stepping into the chaos outside. The man’s nose is bloody, claw marks on his forearms from where the people had grasped at him. Someone punches him square in the jaw and Ironwood spits blood from his mouth.

Ozmund raises his cane and slams it back onto the dirt with a rush of wind magic, causing the air to burst with an ear-splitting **BOOM**!

The blast of air causes the crowd to fall to their knees and cover their ears. Shocked into silence, they turn to Ozmund.

“RELEASE HIM!” he demands in a resounding voice, using the wind to make it stronger and louder. He’d seen Ozma use this trick once. The Wizard’s magic was a lot easier to conjure than he thought it would be, though physically draining, in the same way running for miles and miles without stopping or working all day in the fields during summer was draining.

Slowly, the people begin to move, pushing Ironwood back towards Ozmund. The man falls into place at his side, looking at him with wide eyes. _Don’t hurt them_ the look seems to read.

Ozmund feels a little hurt. He wouldn’t dare hurt any of these people; it was all just for show. He wasn’t even sure he had enough magic gathered in him to do anything beyond simple spectacles. He places a hand on Ironwood’s back, trying to nonverbally reassure him of this, when—

**SHREEEE!**

A shriek pierces the air. Everyone looks up. 

A Nevermore, an enormous, Grimm of black feathers and fury, circles the air above them. The ground begins to shake under their feet.

“No,” Ozmund breathes in horror, feeling their presence before he actually sees them.

A pack of Beowolves burst out from the trees surrounding the town, howling, barking, their teeth glinting in the sunlight—

“RUN, JAMES, RUN!” He grabs Ironwood’s wrist, pulling him in the direction with the least Grimm in the way.

Ironwood bursts into a run but quickly skids to a halt, looking back to find Ozmund limping slowly after him with his cane.

“I’LL BE FINE!” Ozmund screams, waving for him to keep running. “JUST GO!”

“I’M _NOT_ LEAVING YOU!” Ironwood yells, coming back to pick Ozmund up and toss him over his shoulder.

A Beowolf leaps at them from the side but Ozmund catches it just in time. He sends a weak blast of fire at it and it yelps, falling back to shake the flames from its fur.

From above, the Evermore swoops down low with a blood-chilling screech, its wings ripping apart buildings as it passes. Debris starts to fall around them, Ironwood using his arm to protect his face, squinting through a curtain of dust, cascading splinters, and raining nails.

**SHREEE!**

The Evermore turns back around in the air.

That’s when Ozmund catches a glint of something—no, someone—crouching low on its back. The pale figure of Salem, riding atop the beast with her teeth bared.

“ **OZMA**!” she screams, high and piercing, louder than the Evermore, louder than the howls of the Beowolves and the resounding destruction of the town. “ **WHERE ARE YOU**?!”

Ozmund has never felt more terror in his life. He hisses a curse word repeatedly under his breath.

“WHAT DID YOU DO TO YOUR CRAZY EX WIFE TO MAKE HER SO MAD AT YOU?!” Ironwood screams.

“I MAY HAVE IMPALED HER A FEW TIMES AND BLINDED HER WITH ICE! JUST A TYPICAL DIVORCE!”

“IF SHE CAN CONTROL THE GRIMM, CAN’T YOU?!”

“NO! I DON’T KNOW HOW SHE GAINED CONTROL OF THE GRIMM! SHE NEVER MENTIONED IT!”

“AND YOU _MARRIED_ THIS WOMAN?!”

“WELL, IT SEEMED LIKE IT WOULD BE A LOT NICER AT THE TIME, _JAMES_! DON’T CRITICIZE MY LIFE CHOICES—!”

“ _YOUR_ LIFE CHOICES ARE ABOUT TO GET US BOTH _KILLED_!”

Ozmund goes back to cursing repeatedly. Technically, _Ozma’s_ life choices were about to get them both killed-the _bastard_ , wherever he was right now.

The Evermore sweeps down again, Salem igniting buildings with her magic as they fly past.

One of the Evermore’s wings knocks down the building standing right over them. The entire thing collapses, burying them underneath.

\---

Ozmund breaks free of the rubble with his magic, coughing on dust and smoke. Ironwood crawls out of the wreckage after him.

Out before them, the town lies silent and ruined.

“O-Oz?” Ironwood coughs. “Are you alright?”

“I should be asking you.”

Ironwood places a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’m fine, thanks to you.” He glances around the open sky. “Do you think she’s gone?”

“She looks to be.” Ozmund stands with the help of his cane and dares to venture further out into the open. Ironwood follows him.

They make it back to what used to be his jewelry store. Ironwood stops at the furry body lying on the ground, leaning down to stroke the fur of the dead hound. A sad look crosses his face, but he somehow manages to smile. “Good boy, Toto. Bet you defended it until the end, right?”

“I’m… I’m sorry, James.”

“It’s not your fault,” Ironwood says, his voice tight. “Toto was a fighter.” He stands up slowly, staring at poor Toto for a second longer before turning back to Ozmund. “We should look around. There may be some people who got trapped under the rubble like we did.”

Under a fiery autumn sky, they start their search.

“HELLO!” Ozmund calls, glancing around. “IS ANYONE HERE?!”

Nothing.

Ironwood yells beside him, “IF YOU’RE OUT THERE, PLEASE RESPOND!”

More nothing.

_Maybe everyone made it out—maybe everything is fine._

Ironwood calls out a little more desperately, “SOMEONE! ANYONE?!”

 _They fled. They had to. They_ had _to._

Ozmund closes his eyes. “This is my fault. She wouldn’t have come here if…! This is my fault—this is all _my_ fault—!”

“Hey! Oz.” Ironwood turns him around to face him. “Don’t.”

“But—but what if everyone is… I-I shouldn’t have stayed here so long! I should’ve—!”

“Blaming yourself isn’t going to help anybody, least of all you. Maybe we should—”

“Wait…” Ozmund hushes him. He strains his ears over the whistling wind, swearing he heard the sound of a wail. Was the Evermore back? Was Salem—?

The cry comes again, small and weak.

Ozmund runs towards the source of it. He uses his magic to lift some beams, planks, and a cracked windowpane out of the way, out of fear that removing everything piece by piece might cause it all to collapse upon the poor soul trapped underneath. The magical effort causes a sudden dizziness, but as he looks upon what had been hidden under the wreckage, he believes it to be worth the expense.

Ozmund reaches out and holds the bundle carefully in his arms. Another cry pierces the air.

“Oh, shh, shh, you’re okay, little one,” Ozmund whispers. He wipes a smudge off the baby’s cheek with a handkerchief from his pocket. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Ozzie’s here, Ozzie has you.” The baby’s crying settles a little. Ozmund finds a name sewn into the blanket. “Oscar,” he says.

The baby looks up at him with big, round eyes.

Ozmund smiles, bouncing the baby in his arms. He turns to look at Ironwood, who holds a sad light in his eyes.

“Well, Oscar… I do believe it’s just us now.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for reading! This is the first fanfiction I've ever done, as well as my first time using AO3. Even so, I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to tell me if there are any typos or something wrong with the format, or just anything weird or confusing in general! <3


	2. Amid the Mourning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozmund mourns the loss of his daughters and finds someone who might understand his situation, even if just a little bit.

Ozmund and Ironwood travel toward nowhere in particular; they merely pick a direction and walk. Ozmund has Ironwood carry Oscar, unable to hold him comfortably for very long with just one arm. The other being required to use his cane.

After a mere hour of walking, the pain becomes too unbearable and he asks Ironwood for a break. They settle on a nearby log, Ozmund massaging the source of his pang, an invisible spot that he can’t seem to identify. It exists somewhere along his femur, going down the knee but not _quite_ there.

“I’m surprised that's healed as much as it has, and so quickly, too,” Ironwood comments, watching Ozmund carefully explore along his leg. “It could have been worse, all things considered. You could have easily lost it.”

“Where was the injury?” Ozmund asks.

“Femur. Exactly right there. But the break went away after the first month. I figured I was just that good of a nurse, but I’m guessing now that you simply used your magic to heal it.”

Ozmund confirms his suspicions with a flat hum. Apparently, healing magic took a lot out of the fuel tank. He really wishes Ozma had been around to tell him that. And more. Managing his own life by himself was strange. The Wizard had controlled his body for so long, Ozmund had forgot what it was like to inhabit it. Too bad it had to be right after getting pummeled to near death… Figures Ozma would leave _him_ to deal with the consequences.

“She crushed it, if I remember right,” he mutters more to himself. “Or supposedly _tried_ to crush it. It feels like she still _is_ crushing it.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yes, it’s just—” Ozmund hisses at a sharp escalation of pain, a sensation like being stabbed in the thigh. “I-it’s hard to recall. My memory of that night is mostly a blur.”

“I fear we may have to walk a while longer until we find another town, and I don’t believe I can carry the both of you.” Ironwood glances down at Oscar, who’d fallen asleep at some point during the walk. Honestly, considering what the poor child had been through, it’s not surprising.

Ozmund just hopes that Oscar’s blankets were thick enough to keep him warm. The air was chilly, and the wind didn’t help. Even Ozmund could feel the cold seeping in through his gloves and thick, blue coat. Ironwood had been kind enough to wash them for him, but there were still some lingering bloodstains.

Ironwood said the cold had never particularly bothered him, as he’d grown up with it. He stands in nothing more than a simple shirt, pants, and boots, and he doesn’t appear at all bothered, not even as a gust of icy wind brushes past them.

“At least he’s been easy to deal with.” Ironwood shrugs. “So far at least. Don’t know what we’re going to do when he starts to get hungry.”

“Do you think he’s weaned yet?”

“A child _this_ small, Oz?”

“My girls were that small when they were weaned. Then again, we had to start early, as there were four of them, and Salem didn’t… have the patience.”

“Ah, right. You had quadrupeds.”

“ _Quadruplets_.”

“Bless you.”

Ozmund rolls his eyes, figuring that this was Ironwood’s way of teasing him. Most of his jokes—or at least what Ozmund _assumes_ to be jokes—were delivered in the same flat, mellow tone as everything else he said.

Ozmund returns to checking his leg. He runs some magic through it but he can’t find anything wrong. As he presses down on his thigh, he recalls what had happened to it. He recalls Salem’s face. Just a faint image of rage and fury as she brought down fire and death and—

Another surge of pain.

Ozmund winces.

Ironwood shifts on the log and Ozmund reaches out for Oscar instinctively, “Careful, James! It’s a baby, not a package.”

“Do _you_ want to hold him? Honestly, I’ve ever done this before—”

“Shh,” he hisses, “you’ll wake him.”

“Alright, just—here.” Ironwood moves again, practically shoving the bundle into Ozmund’s arms.

“Hey, careful! _Careful_ ,” he hisses. He abandons his cane in the process of trying to safely cradle Oscar. The baby stirs at the transfer but doesn’t wake.

Ozmund sighs in relief, stroking the child’s soft little head. Oscar releases a yawn and some instinct kicks in for Ozmund, something between absolute adoration for the baby in his arms and bloodthirsty murder directed at nearly everything else.

_If I must, I will devour the flesh of monsters in order to protect you, little one. I swear it._

Yet, as he swears this divine oath between parent and child, he can’t help but feel his heart fall. Did he not swear the same oath to his—well, _Ozma’s_ —daughters? Who was to say Salem wouldn’t take Oscar away, too?

“Hey.” Ironwood puts a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Ozmund nods, unaware that his expression had fallen. It’s been years since he’s had to hide emotions from his face—to put up a mask of calm and collectiveness. Ozma had perfected it over the years, but Ozmund himself was a little rusty. “I need to do something, Ironwood. Do you think you could help me?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I want to say goodbye to them.” Ozmund ignores the stinging in his eyes, trying to stave off the dam. “I… I want to… I-I _need_ to…” He trails off, unable to find the right words.

Ironwood’s hand gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “How do you want to go about this?”

Ozmund pulls a locket out that had been hidden under his shirt. One part of the locket has a tiny portrait of four girls, the other side belonging to a depiction of Salem. He pulls the locket up over his head and holds it out to Ironwood. “Could you remove her portrait from this? Without damaging the other one?”

Ironwood observes the locket. “It looks like an easy enough task.”

“We passed a small grove a little while back. I’d like to do it there.”

\---

The grove was in the midst of changing from autumn to winter. There was frost on the ground, and most of the trees sat barren. The dry grass crunches underfoot.

Ozmund had returned Oscar to Ironwood so that he could walk, taking the locket to the very center of the grove. He’s sure that in the springtime, the grove was lush, filled with flowers blooming in gold, in green, in blue and pink. Maybe some of the trees would grow flowers on them, their petals swirling on the wind, trickling to the ground in sparkling colors

Ozmund’s face grows hot, his tears like fire in his eyes. A numb rage fills him, knotted in his chest alongside numb sorrow.

He lowers himself slowly with the help of his cane, getting onto his knees, despite the protesting from his stiff leg. He holds the locket close.

The word doesn’t feel like enough. _Goodbye._

He doesn’t want it to just be a goodbye.

Ozmund lowers down onto his elbows, pressing his forehead to the cold earth.

Somewhere, the breeze carries their ashes. Somewhere, they nourish the soil, the plants—becoming one with the world surrounding him. Maybe more flowers will bloom from their soot, their end, the source of his agony.

They had been vibrant, those girls. They should never have been a part of Ozma and Salem’s war. A part of him wishes they hadn’t been born at all, if only so they wouldn’t have had to suffer.

They deserved to be here, to experience the bounties of life.

They deserved _better_. They deserved _more_.

He shakes his head.

This is his fault.

He should have been able to protect them.

Of the world, they should have seen more, heard more, had the opportunity to become more. To flourish as the flowers in this grove come spring and summer, growing into more than mere buds, and instead blossoming into their full glory. Yet instead, his girls were flowers in an eternal winter. Lost to him under a void of dark frost, never to resurface.

They had been snuffed from the world before they even got the chance to experience it.

Ozmund lifts himself up, opening his palm to look at their portrait one last time. He digs his fingers into the painfully cold earth and, like a seedling, plants the memory of them into the dirt. He covers it gently, pressing his hands atop the soil where they lay, hoping that the warmth of his love reached them, wherever they may be.

Ozmund releases a sticky sob.

_Goodbye! Goodbye isn’t enough!_

_It’s not fair!_

A cry rings into the air. At first, he doesn’t realize that it had come from him. He inhales sharply, digging his fingers into the dirt.

_It’s not fair!_

Ozmund cares not of his pride as he sheds tears, nor does he care of the ugliness of his wailing and sobbing. This meant more than just crying quietly to himself in the dark of night. He wants this to be like a final scream. To get everything out. To be as loud as he wants to and grieve as greatly as he needs to, without fear of judgement.

Ozmund grasps at his arms, clawing, his whole body falling into each sob.

He feels Ironwood’s warm presence behind him. He quietly rests a hand on his back, letting him scream, understanding that he needed to let the sound of his grief rip the air open into two, lest he himself tear into two trying to suppress it.

The small gesture brings Ozmund some comfort. After many long minutes, the sobs start to weaken. Over several more, they dissolve into pitiful hiccups, until he’s down to only an occasional sniff and a few burning tears, no longer having the energy to weep.

The silence is something between cold and comfortable, the air feeling as though it were ringing all around him. He just feels numb now. What he’d give to crawl into the dirt alongside the locket and become nothing.

Ironwood doesn’t break the quiet, continuing to quietly rub his back.

Ozmund dares to speak first, his voice strained. “We should… keep walking, James.”

“Are you sure you’re ready?”

“No… but… I’ll stay here all night if you let me, and we need to keep moving. Salem is still out there, and we have to get Oscar somewhere warm and safe.”

“Can you stand?”

Ozmund’s body feels too heavy and too weightless, too present and yet too nonexistent. Ironwood slips an arm under one of his and stands, pulling Ozmund up with him.

Ozmund slumps against him, like a limp stuffed animal, filled with more air than fluff.

“Oz,” Ironwood says in a hushed voice. “If you’re not ready, then—”

Ozmund shakes his head, slowly getting his feet under him. Without looking at where he’s going—without looking at Ironwood or Oscar or the grave or the grove—he starts to walk, each step feeling harder and crueler than the last.

Ironwood slips up beside him, and they start down the path towards… something.

\---

Neither of them say anything. Ozmund doesn’t comment about the pain in his leg. Nor the pain in his face and fingers as the cold bites down. He just walks, eyes trained on the dirt, his skull simultaneously full of thoughts and completely empty.

He doesn’t register when they enter a town. Buildings blur. People fading into nonexistence.

Ironwood pulls him into an inn and sits him down on a chair at the front. “Hold Oscar for me while I check in.”

Ozmund vaguely feels the weight of Oscar in his arms. He concentrates more on holding a staring contest with a painting on the wall opposite of him. It was a depiction of humanity being helped by the Gods or spirits of some religion he doesn’t recognize. To him, this painting depicted the most hideous lie he’s ever seen. As if any God would give a two flying shits about humanity.

The Brothers hadn’t.

They’d wiped out mankind without a second thought, and burdened both him and Ozma with this impossible task…

After a few moments, Ozmund suddenly finds himself distracted by a faint sound. It wakes him from his stupor, just the tiniest bit.

Singing. Faint, sounding tragic. Choir music. It must be coming from a church.

Ozmund follows it, as if on instinct, exiting the inn and walking just slightly down the road. He enters the church, finding himself bathed in radiant colors and light and quiet, slow hymns. He sits on one of the benches, processing. Slowly coming back to himself through resentment and regret and spite. He decides that any of those things are better than feeling tragically empty, and so he holds onto those emotions like little lifelines.

He needs to pick up the pieces of himself. He needs to be strong, even if it is through resentment or regret or spite or something worse. He needs to find a way to stop her—to be able to do… _something_ …

“Oz.” The whisper comes from right beside him. He looks up and meets Ironwood’s gaze for the first time in several hours. “What are you doing—?”

“Gods,” Ozmund interrupts in a faint whisper. “I don’t know if I can put myself entirely in the hands of Gods. I’m tasked with carrying the weight of the whole world, James. Yet I haven’t a single clue how to do what I need to.”

“Well,” Ironwood sits on the bench next to him, “maybe sitting in front of people singing the Gods’ praises isn’t a good start, seeing as they’ve supposedly burdened you with this treacherous task.”

Ozmund can hear the skepticism in Ironwood’s voice, but he doesn’t care. Without Ozma, he needs _someone_ to talk to—to _listen_. “Should I despise them—The Gods?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know. _He’s_ the one who agreed to their proposition. But then, _they’re_ the ones who offered it…”

Ironwood doesn’t seem to understand what he means by that. It makes sense. Humanity no longer worships the Brothers of Light and Darkness. Nobody even knows they exist anymore, long since diminished into obscurity. What Gods do the people in this church believe in? What Gods does _Ironwood_ believe in?

Ironwood turns his gaze up to the stain glass windows, staring into the colored light trickling through. “The burden. What is it?”

“Hmph,” something between a grunt and a disgusted laugh exits his throat. “Life.”

“That’s rather morbid for you, Oz.”

“Not just this singular life, James. But life after life after life—forever. For eternity. There will come a point where I may watch you wither and die. Same as with Oscar.”

“How do you… fix it?”

“I have to unite the world.”

“So it’s impossible.”

“Stupidly so.”

They listen quietly for a little while longer.

“Apologies,” Ozmund murmurs, “we should probably head back to the inn.”

“Maybe it’s her.”

“Pardon?”

“Maybe it’s her—Salem. She’s what’s dividing the world. Her Grimm, which tear people and their families apart. I mean, she tore apart yours, didn’t she?”

Ozmund sighs.

“She tore apart Oscar’s family, too.”

Ozmund glances down at Oscar, thumbing the small scab on his cheek. “Forgive me. I’d rather not talk about this right now.”

Ironwood studies him for a moment. “Okay.”

“Oh… And… James?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything.”

James smiles, and Ozmund smiles a little, too.

“Do you want to sit here for a while longer?”

Ozmund nods, resting back against the bench seat, letting the quiet moment sink in. Though he doesn’t particularly feel any good feelings towards the God of Light or Darkness, he finds himself put at ease, sitting here, inside of this church. Though this peace might just be because of Ironwood’s calming presence. Ozmund can feel his slow, deep breathes, and the warmth coming off of him.

It’s just them—just him and Ironwood and Oscar, all of them quiet and basking in each other’s company.

\---

As they walk back, Ozmund starts to notice the whispers surrounding them. A few people glance at him and hurry quicker down the street, speaking mutedly to one another. Others glare, their whispers appearing far more threatening.

He pauses as he catches sight of himself in the reflection of a shop window.

“I feel we might have a bit of a problem.”

Ironwood looks back at him. “What kind of problem?”

“Let’s just say that me and Salem’s faces are rather well-known throughout this side of the continent.”

“Ah. Right. If we don’t want to both end up on stakes for being affiliated with The Witch, we’re going to have to do something about that…” Ironwood hums and glances around him. “Give me a second.” He guides Ozmund under the shadow of a building and quickly enters the shop.

After a few moments, he comes out with a few articles of clothing. He shifts Oscar in his arms so that he can hold out a dark green cloak.

Ozmund rests his cane against the wall so he can clip the cloak around his shoulders and pull up the hood. Salem wasn’t fond of the color green, so Ozma never wore it, though their youngest daughter had been bold enough to. That alone quickly shoots the color up into being one of Ozmund’s favorites.

“It will have to do for now.”

Ozmund nods in agreement and follows Ironwood. Once they get up to the room, he raises a brow.

“You… got a space with one bed?”

“I’m a little low on coin right now, Oz. I didn’t exactly have time to grab any money before the shop was destroyed. You know, by your crazy ex-wife.”

“It was broken into first by crazy townspeople.”

“And the reason _they_ broke in was because they wanted to kill _you_. And me. For harboring you.”

“Fine, fine. I suppose it’s all my fault, then—”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Oz. _Salem_ is the madman. Mad _woman_?”

“Madwoman.”

“ _Madwoman_.” Ironwood smiles, entering the room and settling Oscar on the bed. “Also, are we sure this kid isn’t dead? He hasn’t woken up since the town.”

“He’s only a few months old. He eats and he sleeps. That’s all he does.”

“When does the _eating_ part kick in?”

“He’ll likely wake up and start crying his head off. Or, well, if he _does_ start crying, there’s a high chance that it might have to do with the _opposite_ of needing to eat.”

Ironwood sends him a disgusted stare. “Might I be honest?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve never wanted children, namely for that _specific_ part of it.”

“So you’re not going to help me at all?”

“ _You’re_ the one who decided to adopt him, Oz.”

“What was I supposed to do? Leave him in the ruins of a town, under a bunch of rubble? That’s not really _adopting_ , James, that’s just being… _compassionate_.”

“Okay. You were compassionate. Now why don’t you go off and… find an orphanage?”

Ozmund gawks. “I’m not going to abandon Oscar at some—!” Ironwood quirks an eyebrow at him. “Oh, alright,” he admits, “I’ve adopted him. So what?”

“ _Your_ adopted kid. _Your_ messy diaper problems.” Ironwood pats his shoulder. “Have fun.”

He starts to head back toward the door and Ozmund calls after him. “Now hold on. Where are _you_ going?”

“I have a friend who lives in this area. I’m hoping to convince her into letting us stay with her for a while. Hopefully, we can lie low with her in case Salem is still lurking around. It’ll be cheaper than staying here.”

“Very well. It’s best I stay here anyway.”

“You’ll be alright on your own, won’t you?”

Ozmund glances at Oscar. “We’ll be alright.”

\---

Ozmund didn’t know he’d fallen asleep until sharp crying wakes him. He’s curled around Oscar on the bed, the baby crying right into his ear. Ozmund groans and pushes himself up into a sitting position, cradling Oscar in his arms.

He tries to console him, but he’s fairly certain this isn’t just a plea for attention. No doubt he’s hungry by now.

Ozmund grabs his cane, holding Oscar over his shoulder with his other arm and making his way carefully downstairs.

The man at the front desk pitifully shakes his head when Ozmund asks if they have anything for babies to eat.

“Our shipment for milk is running late. Something about our provider’s house being destroyed in a fire?”

Ozmund winces at that, knowing that it likely hadn’t been just any fire. Either the inn’s provider was set up in the destroyed town, or Salem was still on the hunt, burning everything along her path in her search for him.

“Thanks anyway.” Ozmund sighs and sits on a nearby couch, trying to settle Oscar a little. “Hey now, it’s okay. Oscar, please…”

Oscar keeps crying on, his hands clenched into angry fists.

“Furious little one, isn’t he?” Ozmund looks up, finding a woman with bright white hair standing in front of him. She’s dressed in extravagant purples and ruffles. She motions to the baby basket carrier in one of her hands. Inside sits a tiny child with hair as white as its mother’s. “Mine gets that way, too, what he doesn’t get enough attention.”

An angry, red look settles on the white-haired baby’s face, like he wants to add onto Oscar’s chorus of wails. After a few seconds more of contemplating, he does.

“See? There he goes…” The woman sighs and places the carrier down, picking the boy up from it and bouncing him lightly.

“Mine isn’t craving attention,” Ozmund admits. “I fear he’s hungry.”

“Hm. Momma had to step out?”

“No, she’s, well…”

The woman catches the dark look that flickers across his face. “Oh, I see. My apologies.” Her baby yanks on her hair and she winces. After a second, she looks to Ozmund, “Do you want to trade with me for a moment?”

Ozmund hesitantly accepts, trading Oscar for the other crying child. “What’s his name?”

“Whitley.”

“An adorable name.” He pulls Whitley close to him, poking him gently on the nose. “Are _you_ Whitley?” he coos. The baby looks up at him in surprise, his crying cut off short. “Yes! Look at you, Whitley! Already so big and strong!”

He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but Whitley’s face morphs into something like reluctant pride, something that reads: _I_ am _big and strong! Don’t you forget it!_

“Wow. You’re pretty good.” The woman sits on the couch beside Ozmund and unbuttons her shirt. Ozmund looks away respectfully as she brings Oscar to her breast. His crying immediately stops as he latches on.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. I’m Willow, by the way. Willow Schnee.”

“Ozmund. Though, my friend calls me Oz.”

Willow hums, stroking Oscar’s dark hair. “Just the one friend?”

Ozmund laughs. “Currently, yes.”

“Well, Oz. Now you have another friend.” Willow smiles and offers her hand. Ozmund reaches over to take it.

“Do you live here in town?”

“No. Just visiting my mother for a few days. She wanted to meet Whitley for the first time, and I needed an excuse to get out of the house.”

“I understand.”

“Probably not,” Willow says sadly. She’s quiet for a few long seconds, then softly admits, “Truthfully… I wanted to get away from my husband.”

“Then believe me, I _do_ understand, Mrs. Schnee. More than you realize.”

“I figured your wife was—”

“Dead? No.” Ozmund sighs. “I partly wish she was… She’s… She’s no longer the woman I fell in love with. Or perhaps she was _never_ that woman... Perhaps, like a blind fool, I'd perceived her to be something else entirely.”

Willow nods slowly. “Then you really _do_ understand, Oz.” She huffs. “Marriage. What is it even good for?”

“Now I wouldn’t particularly go that far. It’s a nice thought, to swear your love to someone, and to have them swear their love in return…”

“What if it’s only a nice thought? In practice, it only shackles people to each other, even if they don’t _want_ to be shackled together. But then there are the children. Like chains, children. I love mine, I do, but sometimes I wish I could taste freedom again. If it weren’t for them, I’d be able to. I’d simply leave and never go back.”

Ozmund furrows his brows, staring hard at the floor. Chains? Children? Surely not. Yet he can’t seem to shake the wonder… What if Salem _hadn’t_ killed their daughters? What if they were alive with her right now? Would he and Ozma have stayed, just for their sakes?

A few moments of silence pass between them. Ozmund distracts himself by rocking Whitley in his arms. The boy stares up at him in fascination, blinking his big, blue eyes. Ozmund didn’t view him like a chain—some tether born only to keep two people bound to each other, a mere byproduct of an unhappy marriage. He was unquestionably more than that—a person, to be seen as more than shackles.

Will Willow ever see him as being more? Or is this child’s life doomed from the start?

The minutes pass in strangely comfortable quiet. Ozmund talks aimlessly to the baby in his arms about the weather and how Whitley had hair like the snow. He gently explains snow to him with a serious look on his face, and Whitley furrows his brows like he was honestly absorbing and mulling over this information.

“I think he’s done.” Willow finally pulls Oscar away and rebuttons her shirt.

Willow takes Whitley back and places him into his carrier again. The child whines at the loss of contact.

It takes all of Ozmund’s willpower not to pick him up again.

 _Sure, Ozmund,_ he scolds himself, _just adopt the whole world while you’re at it._

“Here.” Willow pulls something from the bag on her shoulder. She holds out the can to him. “It’s formula.”

Ozmund takes the can. “You’re giving this to me? Formula can be rather expensive—”

“It’s fine. The money that once belonged to my father is now my _husband’s_ money,” she says bitterly. “So I feel a little happier to spend it. Just mix with warm water and it’ll do the trick.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Mrs. Schnee.”

“It’s no trouble.” Willow stands and holds out her hand to him. “Call it a hunch, but I have a feeling we’ll meet again, Oz.”

He clasps her palm with a smile. “As do I, Miss Willow.”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for continuing to read my story! In case you couldn't tell, this story is a slowburn. We're going to slowly make our way up to the more fun stuff. Well, fun to me ^^;


	3. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ironwood goes to see an old friend

Town Guards didn’t make for a very organized force.

The statement for every town of more than a hundred inhabitants to have Town Guards was put into place by a monarchy that had dissolved many years before.

However, the monarchy, small and fragile, hadn’t been able to send its own guards to the towns nor send anyone to train any guards. So instead, young boys over the ages of sixteen had cheap spears provided by the state thrust into their hands without any training on how to use them.

After the monarchy fell, the towns stuck to this format of giving spears to boys and calling it a day. 

It was a messy, uncoordinated system. So, in the end, the title of Town Guard was just that—a title.

Which begged the question: if they didn’t fight Grimm—for who would be mad enough to send their men out to face a Grimm?—, and if they didn’t hold any power over the citizens, and if they had no organization whatsoever, then what was the whole point of giving spears to boys?

The answer was simple: Town Guards were merely a tool to keep the citizens at ease. To make them _feel_ defended and safe, even if they weren’t really.

But if people _felt_ protected, then they were less likely to fall into fear and despair.

Less fear and despair, less Grimm.

In that sense, it could be said that the Town Guards did their job.

However, if not the 'guards', then who was to account for the few Grimm that _did_ show themselves? Who was to put a stop to _them_?

Ironwood didn’t know how to fight men, truthfully. He didn’t know their blades or their hand-to-hand combat techniques.

He knew how to fight _monsters_ , though.

He knew how to _kill_ monsters.

Where the guards smiled and feigned prowess, Ironwood could do what they could not. Not by sword, though. He’d had his own weapon of choice back at his shop, one he and his grandfather had made together.

Ironwood knew jewelries and how to make them—he did—but he knew weapons better. Grandfather had made sure of that much, so he could defend the shop if needed. Not exactly from Grimm, but that’s the path Ironwood had chosen to take in his off-hours. His grandfather’s weapons were too powerful to be used on mere men.

“Gunpowder,” Grandfather had called the sooty material. “And bullets: a metal tooth that keeps on biting.”

Ironwood learned the ways of his Grandfather’s weapons. In the dark, there were other whisperings, from people who knew that Town Guards simply weren’t enough; whispers that claimed that there needed to be more powerful forces to keep the beasts at bay.

Ironwood worked hard, trained hard, and had no fear of the Grimm. He only felt _anger_ towards Grimm. He felt some peace of mind while ripping them apart and shooting their brains out—if they even had brains.

It was Grimm who’d been responsible for the death of his parents, and he swore that night that he’d never let another kid go through what he did, if he could help it. So he quietly got rid of any Grimm that dared show their faces.

Ironwood hasn’t told Ozmund any of this. The man was once Salem’s husband. If she was the Mother of the Grimm, who was to say he wasn’t the Father of them? Who was to say that this all wasn’t some ploy—the story of his wife attacking him, the crippled leg, the innocent smiles, or even Oscar?

Ironwood somewhat doubted that. For Ozmund’s cries for his daughters had felt real, and his dedication to Oscar felt real, and his smiles felt real. And yet, Ironwood can’t help but wonder anyway, to feel the slightest bit on edge around him.

Ozmund kept secrets. Ozmund got strange looks on his face and said odd things. Ozmund had buried the picture of his daughters out in that grove, and for some reason still held onto the Witch’s.

So Ironwood didn’t say anything about his skill for killing Grimm. What if Ozmund saw it as Ironwood killing more of his dear children? Ironwood was willing to feign friendship with Ozmund, willing to be kind so long as Ozmund was kind in turn.

But if Ozmund’s face dropped—if just one glint of darkness flickered in his soul…

Ironwood would learn how to hunt him, too.

\---

A house of good size sat tucked away from town, covered in sweet-smelling purple berries, purple flowers, and clusters of purple plants that had somehow survived the frost. Ironwood knocks on the dark purple door—always _purple_ with her—and waits for it to open.

The blond woman stares down at him from over her spectacles. “James. Been a while.”

“So it has, Glynda.”

She leans against the doorframe, picking at her purple fingernails. “Spill it. What do you want?”

“Do you think I only come here because I _want_ something? I’m hurt, G.”

Glynda glances up at him, raising a brow.

Ironwood sighs heavily. “I need to talk to you. And, well, _maybe_ ask a favor.”

“ _Mm-hm_.” Despite the sharp way her eyes narrow, she gestures for him to come inside. He’s met with more purple—purple couch, purple rug, purple paintings, purple coffee table (where does she even find these things?).

Glynda leads him into the kitchen and they sit at a round dinner table with a pur— _a **yellow** tablecloth—what the fu_—?

The color was so offensive and so thoroughly _against_ the color scheme of the rest of the house, it made Ironwood want to gouge his eyes out.

“Why, Glynda?” he breathes. “Why would you _do_ that?”

“Because it makes people angry,” she whispers back. “It’s really disappointing, isn’t it?”

“A little bit…”

“Sit at the table, James.”

“I don’t want to. I’m against it.”

“Suit yourself.” Glynda sits at the bright yellow table surrounded by a sea of purple and pours herself a cup of tea. “So. What do you want to talk to me about?”

“Erm… Right.” Ironwood shakes himself, coming back to his senses.

He paces back and forth in front of the distracting table as he talks, explaining his situation the best he can while Glynda quietly drinks from her cup of tea.

When he’s done, she studies him for a few moments, then asks, “If you’re really so concerned about it, why not just kill him now, James?”

Ironwood stops pacing. “Because I don’t know if he’s really evil or not, Glynda. You can’t just _kill_ people for no reason.”

“ _Evil_ ,” she mocks his tone. “I wouldn’t say _evil_ , James. Perhaps you mean _conniving_ or _menacing_?”

“Are you really criticizing my _diction_ of all things right now?”

“I don’t know. _Evil_ just sounds so… childish.”

“You _have_ seen the Grimm, haven’t you? Nothing gets more ‘ _evil’_ than that.”

Glynda shrugs, her way of saying _fair point_.

“So. Your answer?”

“You want me to harbor a man who might, supposedly, be ‘evil’?” Ironwood quirks a brow and Glynda huffs, crossing her arms. “Of _course_ I will. He’s The Witch’s _ex-husband_. He’s quite the fascinating man. To think, he had _children_ with her—he had _intercourse_ with _the_ Queen of Darkness? What was _that_ like do you think?”

“I picture teeth.”

“I was picturing a portal to some insidious hellscape. You know. Darkness, _fire_ …”

Ironwood winces. “Ouch.”

Glynda leans forward on her elbows. “Well, James. Now I’m curious. You’ve sacrificed your shop for this man—home and livelihood, and very nearly your own life. Why would you have done all of _that_ if you thought he was evil?”

“I figured it would be best that _I_ was the one keeping an eye on him, more than anyone else. I’d fare far better. If he does wind up ripping out my throat, however—”

“I’d pay to see it.”

“—I’m leaving all of my debts to you.”

Glynda puts a hand to her chest. “How thoughtful. _Really_. I’m _touched_.”

Their bickering was just their way of showing that they cared.

Ironwood grabs her teacup and drinks the rest of it. She scowls at him but doesn’t say anything. When he places it back down, she wipes the rim off with a napkin and pours herself some more.

“Have you noticed anything… _strange_ recently, James?”

“Like what? Is this something to do with the Grimm?”

“No. I mean…” Glynda sighs, eyes to the ceiling as she muses. “I’ve been getting headaches.”

“ _Headaches_?”

“Don’t say it in that tone, James. I mean it. I’ve never had migraines this awful before. I wake up in the morning and it feels like my head is trying to split itself in half.”

“Have I been getting headaches? Is that what you’re asking?”

“Not exactly, no… Just… Anything strange at all, really.”

“I’ve felt more focused these past few weeks. But then again, I’ve always been one to hyper-focus on things.”

“That’s true.”

“Although… Now I’ve found myself contemplating something. After learning more about Salem through Oz, I started trying to figure out why the world feels so…” Ironwood shakes his head. “Oz said he was tasked with trying to bring humanity together, and that stuck in my head. I don’t know _why_ , but it did.”

“I know that expression, James. It’s never a good one with you.”

“What expression?”

“It’s that look you get whenever you start a spiral.” Glynda waves her finger around in a small circle. “Three weeks from now, I’m going to find you passed out on the floor, starving, dehydrated, unshaven, and smelling like a corpse.”

“Give me some credit, Glynda. I haven’t spiraled out of control like that since Grandfather…” Ironwood distracts himself by picking a piece of lint off his shirt. “This is new. A different sort of fixation.”

Glynda studies him, a skeptical look on her face. Finally, she nods and says, “If you say so. At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on you, in case this _does_ get out of control.”

“Sure.” Ironwood frowns.

“What?” Glynda huffs. “No ‘thank you, Glynda, for letting me and my new maybe-evil best friend crash at your place—you’re so pretty and talented and amazing—’?”

“And oh-so _charitable_ and _compassionate_ and not _at all_ a total narcissist.”

“Exactly.”

“And so _motherly_.”

Glynda blinks. “I… suppose—?”

“Oh, wonderful. Because I forgot to mention something.” She scrambles to stop him from grabbing her teacup again, but he manages to get ahold of it anyway. “He has a kid with him.” He takes a long sip from the teacup, staring right at her as he does.

Glynda narrows her eyes at him. “A kid, hm?”

“A town nearby got destroyed by The Witch. The child was the only survivor it seems. He’s just a baby, barely a few months old from what I can tell. I just figured I would warn you. I know you’re not a big fan of children. However, on the bright side, it seems Oz is more than willing to care for him himself.”

“This man adopts a baby and you’re still capable of calling him evil?”

Ironwood shrugs. “I do find it a little odd that the kid was the only survivor in that town. I’m not going to say he was planted, but it _is_ a lot easier to get someone onto your side when you show compassion for children—especially babies.”

“So you think it’s some kind of act by Oz to get you to trust him? That’s kind of a stretch, James.”

“I know. It does sound silly when I say it out loud.”

“You always seem to think that the whole world is against you. You’re _such_ a dumbass sometimes…”

Ironwood makes a small bow. “I do try my best.”

Glynda rolls her eyes. “What reason would Oz have to try to trick you, anyway? Sometimes a man who wants to take care of a baby is just a man who wants to take care of a baby.”

“Hmm. And yet I can’t help but feel like he has… _some_ kind of motive…”

Glynda snatches her tea back. “Doesn’t _everyone_ have some motive?”

“Still. I have to contemplate what his might be. I have to keep at the ready, in the off chance that I might be right, and Ozmund really is just as dangerous as his wife. If not even more so.”

\---

It was early, the light not even starting to show over the horizon. What dim rays did peek through were a deep, dull grey.

Oz might not have woken had it not been for the hand that stroked his hair. She bent down to peck his cheek, and the air felt cold as she left him.

The hushed close of the door made his eyes open. He turned over, looking over his shoulder, to where she had left.

She’d done this quite a few times now. He never thought much of it. Salem was always an early riser. Yet this was different. She’d been acting strangely lately. Nobody else would notice the strangeness he’s sure, but Oz was very perceptive and knew his wife well, right down to the way her fingers twitched when she got frustrated.

Her fingers had been twitching a lot recently—since the night their daughters came in demonstrating a gift for magic and he told her about his deal with The God of Light.

She had been calm and collected as he told her, so much so that it had slightly unnerved him. As the weeks passed, she’d grown more distant, same as he. Instead of boisterous conversations and laughter, now they sat in uncomfortable silence, like they were two complete strangers.

And slowly, over time, her morning escapades had increased. Often, she was gone before the sun was up.

Oz slowly pulled himself out of bed, following after Salem. He slipped down the hallway after her and tiptoed down the stairs.

He saw the front door close as soon as he got down, watching Salem’s pale form through the window as she receded into the mist. Oz’s mind swirled through an internal debate. After a few beats, he yanked his jacket from the coatrack, shoved on a pair of shoes, and followed after.

He found her walking at a leisurely pace down the road leading into town. Oz prayed to himself that it was just a morning walk—something she used to wake herself up and greet the day with, like his mugs of hot coco were for him.

But then a sharp snap slit the silence.

For a second, nothing happened, and Oz stared at Salem’s back in confusion, hiding behind a nearby tree like a coward. Really. What kind of man was scared of his own beloved?

But then a dark shape emerged from the trees. And then more and more dark, ominous shapes.

Oz tensed. _Grimm_.

Salem reached out to pet the head of a Beowolf.

As she kept walking on, more Grimm joined her, from the trees, from the skies, from the soil itself.

Oz followed more slowly now, in fear of the Grimm surrounding him. Then, suddenly, one passed right by, barely a few inches away, it’s fur practically brushing his arm. He receded back in fear, awaiting teeth and claws.

Yet the Beowulf didn’t even glance at him, keeping its pulsing, blank red eyes on Salem, like a moth drawn to the light of a lantern.

_They don’t care that I’m here…_

That simultaneously filled him with relief and with fear. Had Salem always been able to do this—command the Grimm as she pleased? Why hadn’t he seen her do it until now?

Further down the road they went. It felt like an hour had passed. Long and quiet, save for the occasional growl of a Beowulf.

At last, in the distance, large, blocky shapes rose. Oz was able to make out buildings. This was the town near their home, quite impressive in size. It was rare to come across settlements with so many people.

Yet a thought kept nagging in his head: _Salem brought the Grimm here. Why? What is she—?_

“Go.”

The word was sharp and brisk, spoken by Salem herself.

All at once, the Grimm surged forward onto the town, and howls and screams erupted into the air.

Oz had to cover his mouth to keep from shouting, had to root himself to the dirt to keep himself from running out and shaking Salem by the shoulders.

_Why did you do that?! Why are you—?!_

A man, ripped apart under great teeth.

A woman, unable to escape the white claws of death.

A child, swallowed whole—

 _No…_ Oz shook his head, not believing his eyes. Her form, highlighted against the chaos of shadowy bodies and blood, burned itself into his skull. _No, no, no…_

_She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t do this—!_

But she was.

_She wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—she wouldn’t—!_

From where he was, he could catch a hint of her face—still, emotionless, calculating.

 _Why? Why, Salem, why—?_ Hot tears fell from his eyes.

She was quietly watching the massacre, her eyes scanning over the destruction like she was reading a book. Just a book. A little, harmless book, with its little, harmless words.

To her, this was all just a little, harmless death. It meant nothing. It was simply what it was—a Godly immortal preying on the weak.

Oz ran.

He ran. Ran. Ran. Ran.

And didn’t stop until, suddenly, he was home, grasping his chest, desperately sucking air into his lungs.

His hands shook, shoulders trembling, sweat sticking to his face and back.

He didn’t know how long it was he stared at nothing, reliving that moment over and over, seeing Salem casting her judgement upon those innocent people and deeming them all worthless.

The need to vomit smacked him from his stupor. He grabbed a nearby vase and expelled his guts, hacking and coughing.

“Daddy?”

He froze. Slowly, he looked up. He couldn’t say anything; he could only stare like an idiot. He could only imagine the look of horror written across his face.

Luckily, his eldest daughter seemed too sleepy to notice his shaken state. “M’hungry…” she muttered, yawning and rubbing at her eyes.

He felt the bile running down his face and wiped it away on his sleeve. _Do something_ , one half of his brain yelled at him. The other half of him was in full panic mode. He got stuck in a loop, wrestling between these two halves of himself.

Something else took over when his daughter finally really looked at him and asked, “Daddy, are you okay?”

He smacked both halves of himself back to reality and jerked into motion. He swallowed, his throat dry and scratchy. “I-I’m… fine.” The voice was pathetic, but she didn’t seem to notice. He grabbed ahold of his daughter and picked her up, standing on shaky legs.

“Are you cold?” she asked, likely feeling the trembling in his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he choked, “I’m just cold. That’s all.”

He got to numbly preparing breakfast for his girls, barely hearing all of the loud conversations and little jokes they were making. They were always talkative in the morning.

Suddenly, a hand was on his forearm. “You’re burning that, Ozma.”

Oz stiffened, eyes going wide. It took all of his strength not to flinch and smack the hand away. “O-oh…”

Salem thumbed his cheek. “Are you alright, darling? You look pale.”

Oz swallowed thickly. With all of his strength, he softened his face and pulled a smile. “I’m alright.” He reached out and wrapped her in a hug. Maybe it was a bit tighter than it should have been. He tucked his head into her shoulder.

“Oh, and what is this for?”

He could hear the surprise in her voice, but mostly he could hear the bright air to it. She probably took this as him trying to make up for their distancing and awkward silences. He felt like he was going to break apart under her arms, right then and there. He clutched at her black dress, wishing he could sink his teeth into her throat and bite it out, to kill her slowly, like a lowly dog might kill its master.

The betrayal in his heart made his flesh burn and crawl. He wanted to scream.

“I love you,” he murmured instead, hating himself, because he _meant_ it. Even after what he saw her _do_ , he still…

How disgusting.

He’s so horribly disgusting.

He turned a blind eye to Salem’s actions. First a month. Then several. Then a year.

He wanted everything to go back to normal, but it didn’t.

Her touch made him feel sick.

He merely nodded when she spoke and stayed up staring into the darkness at night, unable to sleep. Unable to rest for a single second, for fear that she might deem him useless, too.

He wished he was oblivious again… He closed his eyes when she left in the mornings and pretended to know nothing. Day by day, he died. He killed himself slowly over each unsaid accusation.

Say something.

 _Do_ something.

_Coward. You’re a coward, Oz._

Eventually, when he could take it no more—when he felt like his sanity was about to break—like he was going to shatter into pieces if he stayed any longer…

He convinced his girls to leave with him that night.

So it’s his fault that they died—he was the one who got them involved. Maybe if he hadn’t tried to get them away, maybe if he’d left them there and quietly escaped, they’d still be… They’d still be…

After she burned them—after she took them away…

He grabbed her throat and _squeezed_. And found himself enjoying it.

She pushed a sharp blade of glass from a broken window into his guts and he blasted the ceiling. Salem was buried under the debris and he had his leg crushed beneath the weight of a beam. He managed to get free and start crawling away.

Powerful and deathless, Salem pulled herself back together and slammed a foot down on his chest.

She was going to kill him, like she did their daughters.

Oz somewhat wished that he’d let her, if just for the unlikely chance that he’d stay dead forever. But he knew that wasn’t possible. And _she_ was the reason why.

“YOU DID THIS, SALEM—YOU DID THIS! I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU! **_I HATE YOU_**!”

\---

“OZ! WAKE UP, OZ!”

Ozmund jerks up, screaming bloody murder. He scrambles against the body settled over him, seeing her shape and red—red— _red_ —!

Hard hands pin him to the bed to stop his kicking and clawing. He summons his magic, blasting the body off of him.

A skirmish ensues as he blindly battles back his foe through the dark. Until he’s suddenly crushed to the floor, a knife at his throat.

Ozmund heaves, fire crackling at his fingertips. He prepares to reach for her face, prepares to ignite them both if need be—!

Instead, he finds himself staring up into Ironwood’s frightened eyes, which glint like coal in the light of the flames.

The knife presses harder against his throat, drawing blood.

Ozmund allows the fire at his fingertips to die. “Do it,” he snaps, “I deserve it, James! So do it! Kill me! _Kill me_!”

Ironwood’s hand remains firm, and for a second Ozmund thinks he just might. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth, waiting for the metal to sink in, waiting to drown on his own blood. Then the knife retreats, and Ironwood pulls away, shaking and breathing hard.

“S-sorry, Oz…”

He’s apologizing? _He’s_ apologizing?

Osmond gathers his voice, “F-for what?”

Ironwood lifts himself, staring into his eyes. “For doubting you. S-sorry…”

A few seconds of stillness pass before Oz becomes acutely aware of the sharp crying behind Ironwood. “O-Oscar—”

“I’ll take care of him,” Ironwood says, already getting up.

“No, no…” Ozmund rubs his face. “It’s my fault he’s awake—it’s mine—so let me handle it—”

“Oz—”

But Ozmund is already getting up, making his way to the large basket they were using as a makeshift cradle. Apparently, Ironwood’s friend had let him borrow it. Tomorrow, they’d be making their way over to her place.

Ozmund picks the child up out of the basket. “I’m sorry, Oscar. I’m sorry,” he whispers, hushing the wailing baby.

Tired and lost in numb thoughtlessness, he sits on the couch, pressing his forehead to Oscar’s and humming a quiet tune. It was one of the ones Ozma used to sing to his daughters.

Oscar’s cries simmer down until they come to a soft whine.

Ozmund can feel Ironwood’s presence pressing in from behind him as he hums and rocks Oscar. Eventually, he gathers the courage to speak. “James, can I ask you for a favor?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you hold me?”

“W-what?”

“Please,” he begs, staring at the wall, his eyes stinging. “I just need to know. I need to know that I’m still _human_ … I am human, aren’t I…? I’m not… I’m not like _her_ , am I…?”

Ironwood slowly reaches over the couch and embraces him from behind. “Yeah. You’re still human, Oz.”

The corners of his mouth quiver. He sniffs and wipes his eyes. “I hope so… Gods, I hope so…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know exactly where this story is going but it's coming up with the story beats on how to get there that's killing me. Yo, how does pacing work???  
> *-*


	4. Mother of Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salem forms a plan and forges a monster

Salem rampages for three days and three nights, stopping only when her magic runs near empty and she’s gotten tired of the sounds of screaming.

Only then does she stumble her way back to the beginning: the first town she destroyed along her path of destruction. She could have sworn she’d sensed magic there, sensed _Ozma_ , but she isn’t sure. Ozma had always been better than her at certain magics. Energy magic—used for tracking and healing, among some other things—being one of them.

Perhaps she had decimated him here, a mere two days earlier, but she doesn’t think so. Ozma was slipperier than that, like a wriggling eel.

Salem summons a portion of magic—her fingers burning from the output, though she doesn’t care—breaking gravity itself to raise the debris around her.

Among the wreckage are bodies, but only those of useless common folk and animals.

Ozma is not among them.

Salem drops the wreckage, and it thunders back down to the ground, muffling her cry of frustration.

When the clamor dissipates, she turns to the Evermore that had flown her and the pack of Beowolves that had followed her. “Grab the corpses,” she commands the Beowolves. “I’ll see what I can make of them.”

The Beowolves start grabbing bodies while she returns to the Evermore, taking to the skies once more.

It's short flight before they land back at the castle.

She marches down the hallways, slamming open the doors with her magic, ending up in the throne room to pace back and forth, growls of fury escaping her teeth. It’s only when she turns for perhaps the thousandth time do her eyes settle on the two thrones.

One, made of twisting dark wood stained black, the red seat stitched with silver embroidery that would make any fool with a brain swoon. It was extravagantly carved, as sharp and poised as she was. The chair beside it was plain and boring. Something one might find at a dining table in some normal household. Ozma had never been one for style and dramatics.

When people walked in, sometimes they thought he was her scribe or a servant of some kind.

She recalls when he used to reach across the small gap between their seats to stroke his thumb down the back of her hand. The way he had smiled at her.

When did that smile start to fade?

Her face burning with wild emotion, Salem grasps the plain, boring chair and throws it across the room. It shatters against a pillar and she watches its splinters rain down onto the carpet.

She wants to say that’s exactly how their love ended: big, explosive, loud.

But no.

Their love had died slowly. Long before now. Between awkward silences, uncertain glances, and Ozma’s distancing, like he’d suddenly grown afraid of her. He hid it well, ever kind and gentle. Never daring to mention when something was wrong, so as to spare her feelings and not spur on an argument.

Even when she’d loved him, that aspect of him had gotten on her nerves.

Sometimes, she wanted to grab him by his collar and shake the truth out of him.

_Speak your mind, damn you—you insufferable man!_

But she never did press him, and he never spoke up. So they continued on with their silences, their glances, their distancing, their fear… And they kept on drifting and drifting and drifting…

Until they no longer recognized each other.

There was a disgusting irony there that pinched her heart.

They’d sacrificed _everything_ to be with each other. _Everything_.

And now…

Salem turns, seeking something else to destroy, flaring up fire between her fingers.

Her eyes land on a servant girl, who jumps at her fierce glare. The girl is small but wiry, with her short, black hair tied back into pigtails. She bows low immediately, so as to avoid her Queen’s gaze.

“Y-your Majesty. I apologize. I was called in to clean up a mess in the Great Hall, but I heard a commotion in here, so I thought…”

Salem lets the fire die out. She steadies her voice, inquiring, “How many others are here?”

“Pardon?”

“Servants. Subjects. Whatever you want to call them.” Salem waves a hand in the air, impatience eating at her. “ _How many_?”

“Two hundred servants, Your Grace, last I’ve heard. But if you’re talking about your _entire_ Kingdom, then you and King Ozma have spread your noble rule down as far as to edge of the West Wingtip.”

Salem hisses, jerking her head around, staring hard at the remaining throne. “I have only this continent under my command?”

“They say a barbaric man has taken control of the Great Deserts, Your Majesty. They say he fights like ten men. Like nothing anyone has ever seen before. He’s the one preventing the spread of your brilliant Kingdom. Along with, well…”

“What is it, Girl? Spit it out!”

“Over the past few days, there have been rumors of something destroying your land. They call it The Dragon. It’s been burning villages left and right. Even took out an entire fortress—”

“I already know of that,” Salem interrupts sharply. But then an idea pops into her head. She clasps her hands together, softening her voice a touch. “And it _is_ a most dreadful thing. By any chance, have you seen the state of our Great Hall yet?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Then follow me, and you shall see what has happened.”

Salem leads the girl through the castle, until they come to the Great Hall, destroyed by her and Ozma during their battle.

The girl looks upon the sight in horror. “What could have done this. Was it The Dragon?”

“Yes, dear girl,” Salem says in a sad tone that she doesn’t entirely feel. “But you see, that Dragon has a name, and I fear that you may know of it. Three nights ago, my dear husband, King Ozma, did something unspeakable.”

The girl looks at her in shock. “T-The King? His Majesty?”

“No longer deserving of that title, I’m afraid.” Salem walks towards the wreckage, pausing at a little, stuffed black dog. She bends down and picks it up, something rising in her chest at the sight of it. “He took the Princesses. I tried to stop him, but I was… too late. Since they were killed, he’s been making his way from one Wing to the other. Everywhere he goes, fire and death follow. And I, even with all of my powers, fear I cannot catch him alone.”

Salem turns to the girl again. She has a complex look of disbelief and fright on her face, trying to digest what she’s just been told.

“Tell as many servants as you can. Spread the word, Dear Girl, of King Ozma’s betrayal. Make sure they know of what he’s done. But to any who seek him out: be cautious, for he is a man of infinite faces and he will not be easy to find. If someone is caught using even an ounce of magic, I want them brought immediately to me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Majesty! Of course!”

“Go. Spread the word. But before you go, I’d like your name.”

The servant girl bows low. “My name is Cinder Fall, Your Majesty, and I am humbly at your command. I don’t know if you remember it, but… you saved my life a few years before.”

“So you are loyal?”

“Endlessly.”

Salem smiles at that. She reaches out and pats the girl’s head. “Very good, then. You may go.”

The girl stands straight again, a bright smile on her face. “Of course, my Queen! Right away!”

Salem watches her leave, then turns back to the ruined hall. Her hands tighten around the black dog toy, her sharp nails sinking into the soft fabric.

This was her first time looking upon it after so many days—her first time thinking about what had occurred here.

The bloodshed. The tragedy that had befallen her—

_It’s his fault._

Salem hardens herself on this fact.

_It's all Ozma’s fault._

But somewhere in her—she knew that…

Her thumb traced the fabric of the toy dog between her fingers.

She knew there was a possibility that…

Salem’s still face broke.

And, suddenly, the memories rebuilt around her—the recollection of what had happened here. Of her hands burning from the output of magic, only to be immediately stitched together and mended again. Of his desperate cries. He plead to her, her Ozma.

And for some reason, she still didn’t relent.

Even when she lay on his back and the image of him dying from illness flashed behind the backs of her eyes.

Even as the laughter of their children resonated somewhere in a distant part of her brain. Even when delicate phantom touches from the nights they’d spent together danced across her skin.

_Why are you doing this, Salem?_

She didn’t have an answer—not one he would understand. Because Ozma was always good and just, for as long as she had been silver-tongued and hard to please. And these things they had been for as long as they had both been prideful and set in their ways.

“Salem." The notes of his voice ring in her ears. “Don’t do this.”

But then she did. Because she saw no other choice. As much as she loved him, Ozma would have tried to stop her at every turn. He would have just gotten in the way, just like—just like—

She lifted the black dog up to eye-level, thumbing the little red bow around its neck.

It read a name that her daughters had given it. It sniffed out monsters under the bed and guarded their bedroom while they were asleep. At least that was the lie Ozma had told them, and it was the lie they’d wholly believed.

That this little hound dog would come to save them if things ever went wrong.

Salem swallowed, her eyes burning.

A cry had torn from both her and Ozma's throats, and yet they’d both been deaf to each other in that moment. But now she remembers his scream, just as well as she remembered her own.

She remembered the shrieks of two parents losing their children-in horror of what they’d done, what they'd murdered with their own two hands.

_And what have I done?_

_What_ have _I done?_

And then the shriek of something—someone—else.

An entity that was not Ozma.

Because Ozma didn’t have the grit. Didn’t have that kind of violence in him.

Eyes flashing gold, he’d charged at her—The Other One.

Salem didn’t have a name for The Other One. She’d spoken to him very few instances. She’d accidentally kissed him thinking he was Ozma once. He’d been overly awkward about it. Made a big fuss over it for no reason at all. Every so often, she would hear The Other One singing songs to the four girls who were not his own, and never would be.

Salem knew it wasn’t Ozma singing the lullabies, because Ozma didn’t know of such songs. And because Ozma’s mind still partly existed in times of old, when men were simply men, who were to go to war and earn grand titles and land and riches. Ozma had always been softer than most other knights and warriors, though. It was why she’d fallen in love with him.

But The Other One was softer than even that. He was a bumbling fool, devoid of Ozma’s charm and wit and calm demeanor.

It made Salem wonder just how the two managed to coexist with one another. Maybe they didn’t. Maybe that’s why she’d only spoken to The Other One only a select few times.

Maybe that’s why The Other One didn’t hesitate to shove ice into her eyes and rip her apart with every element under the sun. To scream curses at her and damn her very name.

It was not Ozma. Salem knew that. And yet he’d sounded like—

 _No_.

That wasn’t entirely honest.

For that body—that voice—had never belonged to Ozma to begin with.

Was The Other One at fault then?

Did The Other One make Ozma start to doubt her?

Salem’s tears dissipate with a resurgence of anger.

Now was not the time for tears. Now was the time for action.

She had bodies to do her dirty work, but mere human bodies weren’t enough. She needed far more powerful forces if she wanted to win this game.

Salem steals one last look at the Great Hall, forcing herself to leave it and not dwell on what happened any longer.

If she dwelled—if she mourned—she would never get anything done. She crushes down all of those horrible emotions wanting to spill free and walks down towards her private study.

The bookcase by her desk slides open easily. She steps down into the dark tunnel that opens up, dust and cobwebs brushing past her face as she descends the spiral staircase.

She doesn’t need to close the bookcase behind her—for Ozma was no longer around. The same for their curious little girls. And the servants knew better than to enter her study without permission. And if they did, then it would be the last thing they ever saw.

Not having to shut the passageway behind her is a strange feeling. In a terrible way, it almost felt… _freeing_.

Salem wonders if she should feel disgusted with herself. She wonders what the right response to all of this would be.

Probably to weep. To cry as any mother or wife would.

But Salem was no mere woman. Salem was a God, and she was all-powerful.

And so she would do what any God would do.

She would enact vengeance.

Upon Ozma or The Other One—it didn’t matter.

They were both to fall.

Salem enters the chamber at the bottom of the stairs.

The room is fairly large, windowless, its walls made of carved stone that glittered slightly.

The air was freezing here. It had to be, to keep the bodies from stinking too bad.

They lie in a neat circle around the dark pool at the center of the chamber. The substance gurgled and squelched, bubbling and sloshing against the edges of the pool, as if it wanted to escape.

From the pool, a black mass arose.

The Beowolves from earlier slipped out of the ooze.

“You have what I wanted from you?” Salem inquires.

The beasts bow down. One after another, more corpses slide out from their guts, up their gullets, and out of their mouths, joining the others in the circle around the pool.

Salem eyes each of the corpses carefully. Not all of them were human. That was fine. It gave her more room to experiment.

Her eye catches on a large, black dog. Salem lifts the dog toy up, glimpsing between it and the beast.

“How very interesting.” She pats the head of the Beowolf that had brought the corpse. “Perhaps I shall take this as a sign, hm?”

She walks toward the dead beast and kneels down, touching the engraved tag around its neck.

_Toto._

Salem clicks her tongue and removes the collar, tossing it into the Grimm pool at the center of the room. The collar burns up into purple flames, the tag melting away into the liquid.

“No. None of that. From now on,” she pets the fur of the dead beast, “you are my Hound.”

She gestures to a Beowulf and it grabs a nearby corpse, dragging it over.

“No. Not that one,” Salem demands, observing the corpses from her collection. “I want to make sure I get it just right… I require something more…” Salem’s eyes fall upon the toy dog again. “Powerful.”

\----

Salem doesn’t lie eyes on the tiny, mangled bodies. They’re brought to her, one by one, their forms hidden under sheets and blankets.

Salem dismisses the Beowolves.

She makes a slow circle around the room.

Corpses don’t bother her. But _these_ corpses… Well, she has to admit that she’s crossing a line she never thought she would cross.

For a long time, Salem does nothing. Pacing the small room, thinking. The minutes slipping away.

Only when she feels the tears again—that ridiculous urge to sob and cry and scream, all things that she’s above, because she is _strong_ —does Salem cement herself on her decision.

It’s not an easy decision.

How could it be?

But it’s the one she decides on.

She was no longer the mother of mortal daughters.

Instead, she aims to become the mother of something _eternal_.

Something made to _last_ , made to walk the world until it crumbled beneath their feet. A creature just like her.

_I will make something that will never leave me._

_Something beyond Ozma. Beyond the girls lying at my feet._

_Something that shall be loyal to me until the end of time._

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I wrote this THE LITERAL DAY BEFORE Cinder's backstory dropped. So instead of changing what I've written for her, I'm just gonna stick with what I've got planned. I mean, I'm already plainly ignoring canon anyway, right? ;)


	5. New Developments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozmund now has three friends

The purple house was a perplexing sight to behold. The woman who owned it was even more so, but for a different reason.

Her bright, blond hair and physique reminded him of Salem—of the times before… Well, before everything.

Yet her green eyes were different enough that Ozmund didn’t feel the need to look away from her. And her demeanor was different. Salem was clear in his mind, and sharp, like fragments of glass. But this woman was more like soft light and rain, and definitely more _purple_ in comparison.

He glances beside him, realizing that he’d never really _looked_ at Ironwood. Never really observed his face. Ironwood usually stood behind him, like a blur in the background. But he got the feeling that Ironwood wanted it that way.

This woman, clad in bright, extravagant clothes, quite clearly wanted to be seen, and clearly didn’t mind standing at the forefront.

As they approach, Glynda eyes Ozmund up and down—as though trying to identify his weak points—before suddenly whipping her hand out to him. “Glynda Goodwitch. It’s nice to meet you, Oz.”

Ozmund blinks, a little startled by the sudden movement. He carefully reaches out to clasp her hand. “Ozmund. It’s nice to meet you as well, Mrs. Goodwitch.”

“Glynda is just fine.”

“So is Oz. All of my two friends call me such.”

“Oz is what James kept calling you. I just assumed that was the full name. He’s kept me in the dark about some things. Am I to assume James is one of those two friends?”

Ozmund glances back at Ironwood. “We _are_ friends, aren’t we, James?”

“Well, considering I’m carrying _your_ baby, I assume…” Ironwood’s pauses. “Oh. That came out wrong.”

“Hmm.” Glynda grins. “Apparently, you two are _more_ than just friends, Oz.”

“Really? This is news to me. You could have at _least_ asked me to dinner first before now, James. I’d be _delighted_.”

Ironwood’s eyes flick between the two of them. “You’re both messing with me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t mind him. He’s sweet, just rather sort of dense,” Glynda whispers.

“I was about to say the same.” Ozmund laughs. “I’ve barely known the man for two months and he’s already given me his cane and carried my baby.”

“Amusing,” Ironwood deadpans.

Glynda adjusts her glasses. “At this point, he might as well get down on one knee present you a ring.”

“I’m afraid he’ll have to work a smidgen bit harder to earn my affirmation. Right, James, dear?”

That actually succeeds in making Ironwood’s face turn a shade of pink.

Glynda motions them inside.

Ozmund pushes down the pain in his leg as he follows her upstairs, hiding clenched teeth behind closed lips.

“There’s two spare bedrooms up here, but I won’t criticize if you both want to share one. You two do give off boyfriend energy.”

“Goodness no. I’m afraid he’s not my type,” Ozmund replies.

“And what is your type, Ozmund? _Witches_ , apparently.” Glynda smirks. “My last name _is_ Goodwitch, by the way. You’ve got manners. I like men with manners, so I wouldn’t mind a test run.”

“No thank you. No one is exactly my _type_ … except for, well, _me_.”

“Hah! I do find myself to be quite a catch as well!”

“I’m surrounded by narcissists,” Ironwood says, rolling his eyes.

Glynda opens one of the doors, revealing a room. “Oh, right. I’m afraid I don’t have anything to put the baby in.”

“That’s alright. I’m sure I can manage.”

“You’re sure you want Oscar staying with you, Oz?” Ironwood asks, likely recalling the events of last night.

“I wouldn’t want to put everything on you or Glynda. I was the one who accepted the responsibility of taking care of Oscar.”

“And you’re sure you’ll be alright on your own?”

“I’ll be fine. Here. Let me have him. It's about time to feed him anyways.” Ironwood transfers Oscar to him and Ozmund taps the baby's nose, speaking in a cooing tone of voice, "Right, Oscar? You want your baba? Hungry thing you, you could out-eat a horse I bet!"

Oscar gurgles in response.

Ozmund grins at the child, expelling a "HAH! Then I shall feed you until you are the strongest baby alive! Indeed I shall! Ha-ha-ha!"

Glynda clears her throat. “Well. Good. I’ll leave you to get settled in, then. You can both stay for as long as you need to. I’m aware of your complicated situation with the Witch. I wouldn’t want to send you out there to your dooms. Although, that does sound like it’d be entertaining…”

Ozmund dips his head. “Thank you, Glynda. This means a great deal to me.”

“It’s nothing. I’ll see you down later, I’m sure. Perhaps I’ll even cook dinner, hm?”

\----

Once the door closes behind them, Ironwood yanks Glynda back downstairs. Once they’re far enough away, he leans forward, whispering, “Well?”

She crosses her arms. “I think he’s perfectly fine. You’re just being paranoid, James. I trust him.”

“Only because he gives me a hard time, I’m sure.”

“Very true. But you can’t say you dislike him. There was some fancy work on that cane he was carrying.”

Ironwood glances away from her inquisitive face. “I was bored. Needed to pass some time. Besides, he needed _something_.”

“He didn’t appear to be limping too terribly.”

“I think the pain wavers.”

“Hm. Sounds like something psychological to me. He seemed slightly frightened of me when I approached him.”

“It was a rather forceful approach.”

“It makes me wonder what exactly the Witch did to him. I did notice that he doesn’t really make eye contact, staring vaguely around the facial area or off to the side of it. While he does seem more comfortable with you, his confidence and esteem seem quite low… I don’t really know yet. Overall, he just seemed uncertain to me. Next time, I might push a little further—”

“You should hold off pushing him on anything, Glynda,” Ironwood cuts in. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Ironwood pauses, then decides that he might as well get it out. “He still has nightmares about her. He woke up screaming last night and nearly burned me alive. I thought that was it. He was just as crazy as the Witch, and he needed to die before he hurt anyone else, but… I couldn’t bring myself to kill him. He was distraught… Or… maybe I’m just a coward.”

“Or maybe you saw that he wasn’t the enemy.”

“You’re right.”

“Come again?”

“I said you’re—”

“No, no say it _louder._ Why don’t you go scream it into the woods for me just so I’m sure—?”

“ _I don’t think he’s the enemy, Glynda_. I think he’s just a broken man. He _asked_ me to kill him, and that’s when I knew that I that couldn’t. Not in good conscience.”

A pause.

“He’s a cutie, you know… Wish _I_ could have seen him tied to a stake…”

Ironwood thwacks her shoulder. “Don’t be perverted, G!”

“Ouch! Alright, alright! I’m just toying with you, that’s all.” Glynda pats his cheek. “You know I’d never _try_ anything.”

“Of course I do. I’d just rather you didn’t make those kinds of jokes around him. I think they make him uncomfortable.”

“Really?” Glynda pauses to think for a second. She was hauntingly good at reading people. Ironwood knew she was likely recalling every little twitch and tic of Ozmund’s, trying to deduce if Ironwood’s statement held true.

“Do you suspect that’s why he fears her? Do you think Salem pushed acts upon him that were… nonconsensual?”

“No.” Ironwood shakes his head. “I don’t think so. He didn’t speak of his daughters as though they were conceived through force. I think he was genuinely heartbroken by what Salem had done to him, but I can’t say it was something such as that. I’d have found him with different kinds of scars.”

Glynda grunts. “Well, either way... Remind me to never get married. If I so much as utter the word with even an _inkling_ of fondness, I want you to smack me.”

“Will do,” Ironwood agrees. "But only if you do the same for me."

"As if you even need to ask."

\---

Glynda and Ironwood never pry, but Ozmund hears their whisperings of speculation when they think he isn’t listening—their wonders of what might have been. People should be allowed to keep their secrets, shouldn’t they? After all, Glynda and Ironwood keep a few of their own, he knows. If they were to demand all of his, it would surely succeed in making them both look like hypocrites. They appeared to understand that.

The months pass and the worst of the cold arrives. Snowed in and bored, they all have no choice but to get to know each other.

Ironwood spends most of his time fixing together little trinkets, aiming to sell them in town when spring arrives. Ozmund likes chatting and watching him work, and Ironwood likes chatting while he works, so it’s a win-win. Oscar likes watching Ironwood, too, but mostly because he enjoys playing with the discarded necklaces and brooches. Ozmund takes extra care to make sure he doesn’t shove them in his mouth and choke.

And Glynda… Well, she didn’t have much going on, either, not that she’d ever admit it. She often reads in the living room, pretending her book was of major importance, though both Ozmund and Ironwood knew it to just be smutty romance. Not that they judge her for it, or even really care.

Ozmund decides to sneak a book from her shelf and finds himself embarrassingly enthralled. She catches him reading it and they spend the afternoon looking over Oscar and talking romance. They get into a heated debate about what makes for a better first date: a boat ride on a lake or a peaceful walk through the snow.

Glynda insists that snow makes everything at least eight times more romantic, and so Ozmund suggests that they take a walk outside to see if she still agreed on that stance afterwards. Through chattering teeth, she snaps, “ _Of course it’s romantic! I don’t even feel the cold! My heart it a block of ice!”_

While she’s simply lying to save face, Ozmund admits that the calming snowfall did sway him. The ice is even better! It’s fun slipping around on it! A peaceful walk through the snow makes for an excellent time indeed, he decides.

After this engaging debate, Ozmund concludes that he quite enjoys dissecting books with Glynda. So, in the afternoons, they sit with tea and discuss the latest chapters they’ve read.

Finally, the snow lifts, and the leaves shimmer into lovely, bright greens, fluttering to the ground as spring deepens.

Oscar grows quickly within those short few months, able now to turn his head and eat mushed vegetables. Soon after, he starts sitting up on his own and crawling around. He likes the butterflies that flutter around the garden and has a knack for destroying all of the flower crowns Ozmund makes for him. Mostly, though, he just gets upset when Ozmund stops him from eating dirt and earthworms.

By summer, he’s made his first steps and said his first word. Well, really, it was a name: “Ozzie,” which had sounded a lot like “Ooshie” or maybe “Oshlee”

Still, Ozmund nearly bursts into rainbows and kittens every time Oscar says it. He and the toddler can use up an hour, saying only the one thing to each other—he between fits of giggles and Oscar between drooling and spitting up on himself. It makes for interesting conversations to say the least.

Ozmund always hovers nearby just in case Oscar needs him. He’s not a fussy baby; he’s quiet and not much of a crier, unless something spooks him. At least, he’s like that around _Ozmund_. Apparently, Glynda and Ironwood find Oscar to be a screaming menace when he’s left alone with just the two of them.

He wails and cries and doesn’t stop until Ozmund returns to pick him up. Then Oscar is right back to being a darling little angel.

Yet as the months pass, Ironwood and Glynda reluctantly agree to try to get closer to the boy.

It’s not like they have much else to keep them occupied.

Eventually, with some effort and time, Oscar no longer minds being left alone with the two. And they don’t mind being left alone with Oscar, which is a relief to Ozmund. As much as he loves the child, keeping an eye on him can get a little overwhelming. Having taken care of four infants at once, he can say that he learned how to deal with the sleepless nights fairly well, but even still, he did need moments to himself.

At last, summer fades and fall pokes its head back around. When they’d found Oscar, he was roughly four months old. So by now, Ozmund speculated that he’d be almost one. He decided, then, that Oscar’s birthday would officially be October 1st.

Ozmund bakes the cake, as he’d gotten used to cooking almost all of the meals in the house. Glynda burnt everything and Ironwood was entirely clueless in the kitchen.

Ozmund had a field day watching him bumble around, opening various drawers and exclaiming with increasing frustration "Collumdur?"

"No. _Colander_."

"C _o-lander_?!"

"Yes, it's got holes in it-"

" _COLAN-DURR?!" "_

_James, it's right there-"_

_**"IS THAT WHAT THIS THING IS CALLED?!"** _

"Yes. Now if you'd please, hand me the ladle-" 

_" **LADEL**?!" _

_"My Gods, get out of my kitchen, James!"_

Glynda and Ironwood were officially banned from entering the premises when Ozmund was cooking.

He cuts a slice of cake for everyone, handing them out on dishes Glynda hadn't even known she'd had because she didn't check her own cabinets and simply reused the same four dishes over and over again.

As Ozmund forks a bit of cake into his mouth, he can’t help but think to himself that it’s not only been a year for Oscar, but that it’s also been a year since he had escaped Salem. Since he blasted her full of icicles and blinded her and swore vengeance against her. Since their daughters were killed.

He’d spent a long time crying over his girls. It was only just a few weeks ago that they’d stopped occupying his every waking thought. Some part of him feels guilty over that, though he knows he shouldn’t. He still misses them and wishes things had been different, but he also knows that he can’t sob over them forever. There’s nothing productive in that.

Yet on certain days, the grief comes at him unexpectedly and at full force. On those days, he opts to suffer quietly, toiling away at what he should do.

 _Maybe it’s her,_ Ironwood had told him. _Salem is what’s dividing humanity._

Maybe the only way for either him or Salem to find peace was to stop her and the Grimm once and for all. Yet how was he to stop an immortal being and an army of apex predators—the ruthless Grimm, created at the hands of the God of Darkness himself? Ozmund doesn’t know.

If battling Salem was to be his destiny, what did that entail for Oscar? By being adopted by a wizard’s immortal spirit, was he now destined to follow along only Ozmund’s paths? Has Ozmund doomed the boy by simply making himself acquainted with him?

Maybe the far kinder mercy would have been to leave him at an orphanage, where he might be adopted by a normal family and live a normal life, never to fear the wrath of Salem.

And yet Ozmund can’t bring himself to do that. Especially not after this long. Oscar knew him, trusted him, depended on him. “Ozzie” was practically a synonym for “papa” in his tiny mind. What would the consequences of a father leaving a one-year-old abandoned at an orphanage be? Ozmund fears Oscar would never understand—that it might damage him for the rest of his life.

Maybe that’s a stupid thought. Maybe this is all just him trying to justify being selfish. Maybe he just feels lonely and desperate. Maybe he’s just trying to rebuild what he had lost. Is Oscar just a replacement for his little girls-even if they hadn't really been _his_? Is this wrong?

But Ozmund doesn’t want to think like that. Oscar looks at him with love, and Ozmund would by lying if he said he didn’t love him back.

 _I’m dooming you,_ Ozmund fears. _If she ever learns of you, she will kill you, and that will be my fault. I’ve swaddled you in danger and death. I am poisonous, a snake who’s brought a mouse into the nest._

Oscar’s little hands reach out, grasping at his hair. He wails with laughter.

_You don’t see the scales that surround you. You don’t see the flashing teeth. Is it possible, Oscar? For a snake to raise a mouse? Can I teach you how to bite and snare? Can you learn to live among the coldblooded, and kill all of those vipers who will dare oppose you?_

Ozmund thumbs Oscar’s cheeks and gently removes his little hands from his hair, murmuring, “Yet she is no snake, is she, Oscar?”

_She is a dragon. And she will come for you if you stay with me, and you will stand no chance. So what is this foolish wizard to do with you? You’re accustomed to me. You’d be heartbroken if I sent you back to live once more among the mice. Yet I can’t deny that it would be the most merciful action for me to take. And yet… I cannot do it._

“Aren’t I so cruel?” he whispers to the infant before kissing the crown of his head.

Oscar doesn’t react to that, merely reaches for a golden leaf that had landed on Ozmund’s shoulder. He tries to stick it in his mouth and Ozmund carefully pulls it out of his grasp.

“Look at that pretty leaf you’ve found, Oscar,” he says. “ _Leaf_?”

“ _Eeeee_!” Oscar shrieks, batting at the leaf.

“Mm, yes, quite so. It is the most extraordinary of discoveries.”

“ _Eeef_? _Eef_?”

“Mmh. A very astute observation Oscar. You are this generation’s most brilliant of minds, truly.”

Oscar looks at him like he’s said the most fascinating thing in the world. “Eef?”

“Mm-hm. Leaf.”

“ _Ooshie_ ,” Oscar says, trying to stick the leaf in his mouth again.

“No, _I’m_ Ozzie,” he says, pulling the leaf once more out of Oscar’s mouth. “That is a leaf. _Leeeeaf_.”

“Ooshieeef!”

“Adorable, but not quiet.”

“Ooshieeeef!” Oscar cries, trying to grab the leaf again. He screams, evidently only wanting it back so that he can eat it.

“How about we go get you some nanas instead, okay?” Ozmund sits up from the swinging bench on the porch, using his cane for support. He makes his way back inside.

Ironwood had gone out into town. Meanwhile, Glynda was in the kitchen sipping on her afternoon tea. “Back inside already?”

“Oscar wants to eat the leaves, and _I’d_ rather he eats nanas instead.”

“Eeef!” Oscar demands angrily.

“No eefs,” Ozmund says seriously. “Nanas only.”

Oscar sticks out his bottom lip in a pout, his tiny eyebrows furrowing.

Glynda laughs at the little angry face and grabs a banana. She peels it and starts to mush it in a bowl with a fork. Once it’s turned into a consistent paste, she hands the bowl to Ozmund with a spoon.

Ozmund sits at the table and settles Oscar on his knee, spooning up a bit of banana for him.

Oscar shakes his head. “Nonono!”

“No?” Ozmund asks.

“Nono. No.” Oscar squirms in his grasp and Ozmund puts him down. The boy turns to Ozmund, using his knees to help keep himself standing upright. “Gooplee,” he slurs.

“Go play?”

“Gooplee.”

“Okay. Let’s go play.”

“No. Innwoo. _Goplee_.”

“I’m sorry. Ironwood isn’t here right now, Oscar,” Glynda tells him. “Do you want to come play with Auntie Glynda instead?”

Oscar agrees with a delighted scream, stumbling over to grasp at her legs.

Glynda picks him up, sending a prideful smirk at Ozmund. “Hmm. Guess who’s been chosen this time, Oz. How tragic for you, to have been betrayed this way!”

“I’m sorry, when did this become a competition?”

“Don’t be a sore loser. This was bound to happen at some point. It’s only natural. I succeed at everything, after all.”

Ozmund rolls his eyes, watching Glynda take off with Oscar.

As he watches them disappear around the corner, he can’t help but wonder if it’s at all possible… Is it possible to keep Oscar safe in this world? Who’s to say the Grimm won’t just kill him and whatever family might adopt him? Or Salem, especially if she was out there still on the hunt, burning down everything in her wake? Was she still looking for him, a year after he'd escaped?

He knew that was likely. Salem had always seemed to him like the type to hold grudges.

He sighs, finding himself stuck in quite the paradox.

On one hand, Oscar was among those who could defend him; those who would fight to keep him safe at any cost.

He had Ironwood, strong and determined man he was. Ozmund was no fool. Ironwood was stronger than most, and the way he moved was efficient and poised. He knew how to fight. Given the scar along his right eyebrow and down his arms, he’s likely even fought Grimm before.

And Glynda, level-headed, tough-as-nails, intelligent Glynda. Ozmund gets the feeling that she understands far more than she lets on—like she knows something that they don’t. Ozmund just doesn’t know precisely what yet. However, despite that, he finds himself trusting her.

Then, Oscar had a wizard of ancient magic on his side, one who knew all about the threats that lurked both above and below.

Yet, on the other hand, these were the very kinds of individuals that Salem would seek to destroy. Those strong and smart and powerful, who’d fight against her. So, with that in mind, they were likely the least safe group of people Oscar could possibly be raised by. He might as well be taken care of by a bunch of sentient targets.

They were like doe standing out in the open, with hunters lurking all around them. Starved hunters with crossbows and a thirst for blood, waiting to rip their entrails out and hang them over a spit with a dash of salt and maybe some onions and carrots—

Ozmund drops his head onto the table with a dull thud, feeling like a complete dumbass.

 _There has to be a way. Brothers, there has to be a way! Think, Oz,_ think _!_

His head jerks up again, his eyes widening.

Ozmund races into the living room, “GLYNDA, I HAVE AN—! Glynda?”

Glynda looks at him, open-mouthed. The little alphabet block that had been floating in the air drops to the floor. Oscar claps his hands happily, chortling at the sight of it rolling away.

Ozmund glances between the woman, the baby, and the alphabet block. “G-Glynda,” his mouth fumbles for words, “I… you… You have magic!”

Glynda fails for words as well. “Uh, no, I…” She clears her throat. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Now don’t you go trying to brush that off. I know what I saw, Glynda.” Ozmund reaches down to pick up the block, eyeing it suspiciously. That didn’t seem like any magic Ozmund knew. But it _had_ to have been magic, right? What else could it have been?

Yet there wasn’t a gust of cold air to indicate wind magic. And there was no way it belonged to any of the other Sub-Tier Magics. Not lightning, fire, water, poison, or earth magic for sure. And it was a stretch to say that Glynda could harness Advanced-Tier Magics, like gravity, energy, dark, or light magic. Even if she could tap into gravity magic, there hadn’t been a green shimmer to indicate that it was what she had used…

“How did you do it?”

Glynda hesitantly glances at him, then the block. She presses her mouth to a thin line, contemplating to herself, before holding her hand out. She takes the block, and it hovers just above her palm. Again, no wind, and no green shimmer.

“It… started about two years ago,” she begins. “A Grimm chased me through the woods on my way back from town. I was terrified, and I had nothing to defend myself with. But more than terrified, I found myself… _determined_. I swore I’d fight it off, even without a weapon—that I would survive at any cost—then the Grimm leaped, and I ducked and… I remember pushing my arms out.” Glynda makes the motion, pushing her hands out right in front of Ozmund. “Next thing I knew, it went flying into a tree trunk and disintegrated. I’ve had this power ever since. I practice where I can, but… whenever I use it for too long, I start to get terrible headaches.”

Ozmund mulls this over for a moment, then holds out his hands. “May I see?”

Glynda hesitantly holds her hands out to him, the backs of them resting against his palms.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the small bit of energy coursing through her veins. It’s not _quite_ magic. It feels distant and muted in comparison, like a faded echo of what once was…

“There is… _something_ …” He opens his eyes and traces his fingers down one of her palms, his fingertips feeling the weak flow of the energy, the silent thrum of it, resting deep under Glynda’s skin.

“I assumed it meant I was a real witch.” Glynda takes her hands back, wringing them in an uncharacteristically worried way. “That I might be burned at the stake if anyone knew. I’ve been so careful making sure I kept it hidden… I just wanted to amuse Oscar for a second. I didn’t think you’d see.”

“I’m glad I did.”

“I… _tried_ to explain it to James, but he didn’t really get it. Seeing as he saved _you_ from being burned, I know he wouldn’t care, but…”

“You don’t know how to tell him.”

She nods.

“Well… It’s not my secret to tell. The when, where, and how are all up to you.”

“It’s just… What do you think it means?”

“Truthfully, Glynda, I don’t really know. It’s not a gift I’ve ever seen before. Well… At least not until now.” _Ozma, maybe, but I haven’t seen anything like this in his memories… I wish he was here so I could ask…_

“So even to the godly wizard himself, I’m an anomaly.”

“I might have a clue about your headaches.”

Glynda looks up at him expectantly.

“I’m curious, Miss Goodwitch, have you ever done any drawing before?”

“Em… a little bit when I was younger.”

“Do you know what gesture drawing is?”

“It’s where you just try to get the general shape of something. You don't focus on the smaller details, just the primary shapes.”

“Indeed. I think you’re trying to go for the entire picture, but you need to be looser. Feel how stiff your hands are.” Ozmund grasps at her wrists, turning over her hands so she can view her fingers. “Your shoulders, your back, your neck. You need to let it all relax.”

Glynda takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly, her entire body visibly untensing.

“Here. Try it once more.”

Ozmund hands the block to her.

Glynda takes a deep breath and closes her eyes to focus.

The block floats a little higher in the air than it did before.

“Your magic works for you, and you alone. Don’t ever forget that _you_ are the one in control. _You_ make the lines on the paper. If you are stiff, your lines will be stiff, and your work will suffer for it. But if you’re loose and controlled, you’ll get far closer to what you’re aiming for.” The block sputters in the air and falls. Ozmund chuckles and grabs it again, holding it back out to her. “Of course, it will still take some practice to get used to.”

Glynda nods, taking the alphabet block back and staring at it thoughtfully. “Before I forget… What was it you burst in here screaming about…?”

Ozmund laughs at himself. He’d completely forgotten about that for a moment, too shocked by Glynda’s sudden display of not- _quite_ -magical abilities. “Ah. Right. I’m inclined to wait for James to get here, first. I feel as though you both deserve some explanations…”

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Super insightful and cool writer's comment hhhahha wow look how gr8 and insightful and cool) 
> 
> Also, also, I'm updating two chapters today because I don't like leaving people on lil cliffhangers like this


	6. Sacrifices for the Greater Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some explanations are in order, a plan is made, and Ozmund has to make a hard decision

As soon as Oscar is put down for his nap and Ironwood has returned, Ozmund begins.

He starts from the very beginning: a woman locked in a tower. A hero come to save her. Their fall into love, the hero’s illness, and the woman’s grief at his death. Her, begging the Gods of Light and Darkness to bring him back, and their curse upon her.

The wiping out and restart of humanity, the loss of magic.

The God of Light’s offer and The Relics.

Ozma becoming Ozmund, sort of—in a way.

Salem throwing the first blast. The death of their children. Their bloodthirsty battle and his escape.

“Knowing all of that, I think I’ve figured out—” he takes a deep breath— “I think I’ve figured out a way to try and stop her.”

Both Glynda and Ironwood share a shocked glance.

Ozmund carries on. “When I explained my situation to her, I only told her my deal with The God of Light. I didn’t include the Relics, nor how to activate them. That’s what I want to use. I want to use the Relics against her.”

Ironwood leans forward, fixing Ozmund with an intense stare. “So you know where they are—these Relics? And what they do?”

“I don’t, and I don’t know what they do, exactly. However, considering their namesakes, the Lamp of Knowledge _would_ be the Relic capable of giving us answers, I’d imagine. I doubt the God of Light would lend me this task without a way to gain some proper instruction.”

“From the story I have heard,” Glynda interrupts, “that sounds precisely like something The God of Light would do.”

Ozmund hums uncertainly. “Perhaps… However, even if I don’t know what the Relics do, it would be best to search for them wouldn’t it? Better _humanity_ has the Relics than Salem. I can only imagine what she’d do if she got her hands on them…”

“That is a fair point, Oz. However,” Glynda shakes her head, “if you _do_ bring the Relics together, it will summon the Gods to come and judge humanity. If they judge us harshly, they’ll eradicate us— _supposedly_ — for a _second_ time. And if they judge humanity to be all well and good, then they come back to live amongst us once more. And, honestly, neither ending sounds great. I don’t know if I _want_ the Gods to come back. They sounded like petty children to me.”

“Agreed,” Ironwood adds, “What would be the point in it? To regain lost magic? All well and good, but I don’t see much of a point in that, either.”

“You see… no point in _magic_?”

“No,” Ironwood replies smoothly, unaware of Glynda’s sudden stiffness beside him. “I don’t.”

“But magic would surely help humanity in defending itself from—”

“From what? Grimm? Of whom were _created_ by one of those two self-proclaimed ‘Gods’ in the first place? Every trouble humanity has faced all seems to stem back to those two. I don’t _want_ the Gods back on Remnant, even if it _does_ get our supposedly stolen magical abilities returned to us.” Ironwood stands up from the couch, where he’d been sitting, resolute in this decision. “If humanity somehow manages to make peace with itself and create some great utopia, they’d have had to do it without magic to begin with. In a perfect world without hardship or pain, what good _is_ magic, even?”

“W-well, I… There’s…” He trails off.

“Think for a moment, Oz,” Glynda says more gently, “about this task of yours. You unite humanity. Then what? The Brothers of Light and Darkness return and everything goes back to the way it once was? At least until another Salem comes along to piss them off, and we start this charade all over again. What good _are_ the Gods? Other than their gift of magic, what more can they offer? Their terrible advice and sub-par parenting skills?”

Ozmund had never thought of any of that before. So enthralled in his own newfound magic, he couldn’t quite wrap his head around once more having to enjoy a life without it. Like Glynda and Ironwood, he had also grown up not depending on it. In that sense, Second-Generation Humans were perhaps a great deal more resilient than the First-Generation could have ever hoped to be. They only had their physical bodies, their minds, and their instincts to depend on. They had not the very forces of nature lying right there at their fingertips. Nor real, physical Gods to worship.

If they needed light to illuminate their paths, they had only fire. And if they wanted a fire, they had to toil for it. Even something as small as a book on a high shelf, they had to go out of their way to stretch and reach.

And what if that was for the better? As Glynda had said, what could the Gods offer humanity once humanity united and cemented itself? What good were parents anymore when their children were fully grown? In a good home, parents could still offer their love and support, even if their children were older and didn’t need them anymore. But the Gods didn’t have _any_ love in their hearts for humans. They wiped humanity clean off the face of Remnant once already without hesitation.

The Gods had been rash and cruel, and a child shouldn’t ever have to accept negligent parents. Better to leave the dark, choking smoke of dying coals behind, and instead find a far kinder flame as a source for warmth.

“So you both agree.” He glances between them. “That even if we do manage to unite humanity, we shouldn’t bother summoning the Gods…?”

Ironwood rests his chin on his first knuckle. After a moment, he says, “That appears to be the consensus, yes.”

Ozmund’s shoulders sink. “Perhaps the Relics ought to remain untouched, then?”

“Not exactly. I do also agree in part with you, Oz. I do think it’s better that _we_ have these Relics instead of Salem.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“What if we just… _don’t_ bring the Relics together? What if we only use them when we need them, and keep them hidden and far apart from each other when we don’t?”

“That could work.” Glynda nods slowly. “Just one problem: we still don’t know where these Relics _are_.”

“That is indeed an issue,” Ozmund sighs. He taps his fingers on the top of his cane, the other two watching him intently. A minute or so of thoughtful silence passes, then Ozmund stops his tapping. “I can sense Grimm.”

The two raise their eyebrows, waiting for him to explain.

“The Grimm were created by the God of Darkness. And the Relics were crafted by the God of Light. If I can sense the magic of the Grimm, then maybe I can sense the magic of the Relics.”

Ironwood makes an uncertain noise. “That’s a pretty big _maybe_ , Oz. And I do have another concern. Is _Salem_ capable of sensing this magic as well? Is there a possibility of her finding the Relics before we do?”

Ozmund shakes his head. “Salem has always been skilled in the more combative magics—fire, lightning, poison, darkness… Not so much the more defensive or passive magics. She struggles with light, wind, gravity, energy… Energy especially, as it’s an entirely passive skill, designed for supporting others and sensing danger. It requires compassion—of which she’s never had much of, I admit.”

Glynda makes a face. “You know, that sounds like it should have been your first warning that she was crazy.”

“I’ve always known she was slightly unhinged. I used to adore her quite chaos. She had this air about her that was…” Ozmund hates the flush that tries to overtake his face. Those days no longer existed, and they never would again. He shakes his head angrily and turns away from Glynda and Ironwood, glaring down at the floor. “I do adore it a lot less now… Anyway. Energy magic is off the table for her, and that’s what I use to sense the Grimm. So it stands to reason that she won’t be able to sense the Relics, either.”

A beat of awkward tension hangs in the air before Ironwood asks, “What do we need to do to get started?”

That word clicks in Ozmund’s head. “We…?”

Ironwood raises his brows in surprise. “We were all going to go together, weren’t we? For the Relics?”

“You mean you’ll go with me?”

“We’d fare far better if we stuck altogether.” Ironwood glances at Glynda. “Right?”

Glynda’s face also morphs into surprise. “You mean want _me_ to go as well?”

“Of course. The more people we have, the better of a chance we’ll stand out there.”

Glynda quite obviously represses the smile that wants to form on her face. She crosses both her arms and her legs in one sharp movement, jerking her chin up. “Well! _Someone_ is going to need to look after you two idiots! Besides, I can’t have you two taking _all_ of the credit for saving the world! So, fine. I’ll come, too. Now then, Oz, dispense the information! What do we have to do next?”

Unlike Glynda, Ozmund lets the smile form on his face in full. “Of course. I’ll try to see if I can sense any traces of the Relics first. After that… I’m not sure. I would say we should get on the road as soon as I can locate them, but… there is the problem of Oscar…” Ozmund raises his head, looking out the window, toward the perilous world that lie beyond the glass. “We can’t leave him here alone, and we surely can’t take him with us. It’s far too dangerous out there on the open road for an infant. I do… have an idea…”

“What?” the two ask simultaneously.

“I have a friend. Her name is Willow Schnee and I have a strong feeling that she’ll—”

“I’m sorry. Did you say Schnee?” Glynda cuts in.

“I—Yes?”

“Schnee.”

“That’s correct.”

“A Schnee-Schnee? As in like, you know, the Schnees?”

“Yes, Glynda. A woman named Willow Schnee—”

Ironwood grabs him by the shoulders, jostling him. “You’re friends with _Willow Schnee_?”

“T-that’s right, Willow Schnee! What about it?”

“Oz, you are _hopeless_!”

Glynda grabs them both by their collars and shakes them. “If you _really_ know Willow Schnee, then why in the world are you two idiots crashing at _my_ place?! Wait a moment!” She jerks sharply at Ozmund. “Is _that_ where you disappear to every Friday?!”

“I bring Oscar there for playdates with her son—”

“Oz, I am going to _strangle_ you! The least you could have done is introduce me! I’ve been trying to get acquainted with the Schnee Family for _years_!”

“Oh, it turns out all you need is an adorable baby! And possibly an ex-wife who’s tried to kill you once… or… twice.”

Glynda pauses. Blinks. Then starts making her way upstairs. “Oz, I’m stealing your adorable baby to get acquainted with the Schnees!”

Ozmund blocks her path. “No, wait! I just put him down for his nap! Glynda—!”

“Move, Oz—!”

“You don’t understand,” he hisses, “he doesn’t like being woken up—!”

“He’s a baby, Oz! Get a grip—!”

“I _really_ don’t think you—!”

Glynda grabs his cane from him and throws it across the living room.

Ironwood gasps sharply. “ _Glynda_!”

Ozmund watches in shock as the cane clatters against the floor. “Did you _really_ just—?!”

“I’ll make it up to you, Oz!” Glynda runs up the stairs, knowing he won’t be able to follow her.

Ozmund squints his eyes at the cane. He could easily just use his magic to pick it up and stop Glynda, but…

A furious, sharp cry pierces the air.

“I TRIED TO WARN YOU,” Ozmund calls up. “HE DOESN’T LIKE BEING WOKEN UP! ALSO, HE’S TEETHING, SO WATCH THE—”

Another shriek from Oscar, then one from Glynda.

“OZ! HE’S BITING ME! YOUR EVIL BABY IS BITING ME—AGGGH!”

“There it is.”

Yeah.

At least against Glynda, Oscar could easily handle himself.

\---

Ozmund can feel Glynda’s intense gaze on his back as he walks up the steps to the blindingly white manor. “I tried to tell you—”

“Shut it, Oz,” Glynda seethes.

“What? Don’t tell me you’re mad at _Oscar_.” Ozmund bounces the baby in his arms. “My adorably rabid, spikey Pinecone.” He kisses the baby’s cheek, which is still red with his fury. Ozmund didn’t know it was possible for a baby to glare, but that was definitely what Oscar was doing. He hadn’t broken eye-contact with Glynda since they walked out the door.

“How come he doesn’t bite you?” Ironwood asks. “He nearly got a whole finger from me the other day.”

“That’s because I’m not foolish enough to wake him up in the middle of his naps. Oscar needs his sleep, or he turns into an actual Grimm.”

As if to demonstrate his point, Oscar throws his stuffed fox toy right at Glynda’s face.

She catches it swiftly. “Ha! Nice try, kid!”

Oscar makes a growling noise at her.

“See? Like a Beowolf, this child.”

He knocks on the door to the forebodingly large Schnee manor and a moment later, Willow Schnee opens the door to herself.

“Oh, hello, Oz,” she says with a kind smile. “Are you and Oscar here for another playdate?”

“Something like that,” Ozmund replies. “I’m afraid I have a request for you, Willow. Would you mind if we came inside?”

“Them as well?” Willow looks over his shoulder at Glynda and Ironwood, who send her two big, dopey smiles, their eyes sparkling as they take in the extravagant house before them.

“Yes. Willow, this is Glynda Goodwitch and James Ironwood.”

“Oh! I’ve heard so much about you,” Willow says. “Do come in. My mother is asleep right now, so just try to be a little quiet, okay?”

“I’m honestly glad you were home,” Oz replies as he steps inside. Glynda and Ironwood step in after him, gushing to each other about all of the wealth and glamor of the house’s interior. “I figured you would have gone home by now. You said you were going to leave at the end of last week. It’s… nearly been a year—”

“I know,” Willow says sadly. “I just can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t want to see _him_ again.” Her hands clench angrily at her sides, then quickly unclench, the anger draining immediately. “I figured I’d wait for my mother to… well. You know…”

“Still. I’m not sure about you leaving Winter and Weiss back home alone. You have Whitley, but—”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you!” Willow turns to him, a bright expression on her face. “I had Klein bring them over! Do you want to meet them—you should meet them! Let’s go!”

Willow grabs his wrist and pulls Ozmund along. He stumbles after her as she yanks him through a set of grand doors. It looks like a ballroom of sorts, with hanging gold chandeliers, a piano towards the back, and tables pushed to the sides.

A man in a suit sits at the piano, a little girl sitting on his lap. He’s playing a song with one hand while the little girl haphazardly smashes at the keys with both of hers.

“Wonderful playing, Miss Weiss!” he tells her, “Simply superb!”

The toddler shrieks with laughter, smashing the keys with more energy.

Towards the back of the room, another little girl was playing with a dollhouse that looked a little out of place in the ballroom. Whitley sat in front of her, pummeling a wooden toy horse on the ground, seemingly trying to give it the allusion of galloping.

“Good evening, Klein,” Willow calls.

“Oh! Mrs. Schnee!” The man at the piano sends a warm smile. “And company, I see! Always good to see you, Ozmund.”

Ozmund dips his head. “The same to you, Klein.”

“Perhaps I shall go put some tea on!” Klein stands up from the piano, placing the little girl on the ground.

The girl surprisingly runs up to Ironwood, waving both hands at him, “Hi!”

“O-oh! Hello,” he responds kindly. He kneels down to her level. “What’s your name?”

“Weiss.”

“Ooh, that’s a very lovely name.”

The girl nods her head. “I kno—I know a rully, rully good song. Do you wanna hearit?”

Ironwood gasps dramatically. “Really? I would love to hear your song!”

Ozmund laughs, watching as Weiss starts to sing Ironwood Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. She gets half the words wrong, but the spirit is all there. “They’re darling, Willow."

She smiles fondly. “Aren’t they?”

“Will you all be staying here for much longer after your mother…?” He shakes his head, unable to say it. Not in front of Willow.

“Mm. At least until Jacques comes to pitch a fit, which will likely be a while. He’d rather not have to be annoyed by children, even if they are his own.” She looks towards the dollhouse. “Winter. Why don’t you come say hello to Mommy’s friends?”

Winter glances over, then gently places her dolls down and runs up to them.

“Winter, dear, this is Ozmund.”

Winter looks at him without an ounce of shyness. “Hello.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Winter,” Ozmund greets. “Are you the oldest?”

“Yeah. I’m five,” she answers curtly, holding up her hand to show her age.

“Goodness! I guess that means you have to do everything around here, hm?”

“Yeah… I help ta keep an eye on Whitley.” She points a finger towards her brother. “He tries to eat things offa the floor a lot.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, one time I caught him with a bug in his mouth!” She scrunches her face. “It was _rully_ _gross_!”

Ozmund scrunches his face up, too. “ _Yuck_!”

She nods her head. “ _Mm-hm_! But he didn’t get ta eat it ‘cause I took it away from him! Mommy says—she says I’m super-duper good at babysitting!”

“I bet.”

“Yeah! She says I’m her little soldier!” Winter furrows her brows and salutes with a serious look in her eyes. “I gotta keep ‘im safe n’ stuff! Weiss, too! I’m ultra-strong!” She glances at her mother, then beckons him closer. He leans forward and she cups her hand over her mouth, whispering into his ear, “Don’t tell Mommy, but one day, I might even fight a Grimm…”

Ozmund whispers back, “A Grimm, hm? That’s serious. And don’t worry. I won’t tell.” He presses a finger to his mouth. “I’m really, really good at keeping secrets.”

Winter grins. “Me, too!” She giggles and runs back to her dollhouse.

Ozmund watches her go before turning to Willow. He stands up, asking, quietly, “May I speak with you in private?”

Willow glances toward Ironwood and Glynda, who were busy entertaining Weiss. They applaud as she finishes singing another song. Oscar had instinctively crawled over to Whitley. The two toddlers were taking turns smashing the wooden horse into the tile.

Willow nods and beckons him toward another pair of doors. It leads into a sitting area with an enormous window, which lets in a pool of bright, white light.

“What is it?” she asks as soon as the doors close behind them. She makes her way to one of the couches and sits down. He takes a seat on the couch placed across from her. He rests his cane against the arm and folds his fingers together, resting them on his lap.

“Me, Glynda, and Ironwood have to go do something important. I can’t exactly say what or for how long we’ll be gone for. The problem is, with the Grimm out there, running rampant—”

“Oz.” Willow holds up her hand and he stops. “You don’t have to explain. If you need me to keep an eye on Oscar for you, I’d be glad to.”

“You mean it?”

“I do. I know it’s only been a year, but Oscar feels like family. And Whitley really likes him. Besides, I’m sure my mother wouldn’t mind having another child to fawn over.”

“Are you sure you won’t be too busy with your own children? I don’t want to push more responsibility on you than you can manage—”

“Like Winter said. She’s my little soldier. She’ll be happy to help where she can, and so will Klein. We have a whole team.”

“What about taking care of your mother?”

“She… has her doctors,” Willow replies slowly. “She’ll be well taken care of, I promise you.”

Ozmund nods slowly. “If you’re sure it won’t be too much trouble. Thank you, Willow. This means the world to me.”

“I should really be thanking you. I don’t know how I would have managed without you, Oz. I probably would have either driven myself to the brink of insanity or allowed myself to die slowly, locked away in my room to wither away. You’re one of the few people who understands what it’s _like_. To _hate_ the person you married, and in turn start to hate yourself for it… Even my mother doesn’t really understand…” She looks off sadly. “She still wants me to go back to him. Though she loves her grandchildren, she still thinks it would be best if they grew up with both of us—me _and_ their father.”

“I know it’s difficult, Willow,” Ozmund says gently. “I can’t quite give you an answer on which path is best—I can’t, in good conscience, tell you to choose between saving either yourself or your children.”

Willow looks down, shoulders sinking. “I know… I’ve… rather sort of come to that decision on my own. For the good of Winter, Weiss, and Whitley… I think it would be best for me to go back to Jacques. My mother won’t last much longer with her sickness. And when she goes, that’s it for this old house. Jacque will own officially everything, as my father decreed in his will. He already told me he wants to have this house destroyed and turned into a new mine.”

“A new mine? For that _Dust_ substance, I assume?” Ozmund asks. The Schnees had always had a fair amount of money. Willow’s grandfather was a general for what used to be a very promising kingdom, at least before it was destroyed by Grimm. When he died, Willow’s father used his money to make a business mining coal. However, on the first mine he dug out, he winded up striking something far greater than a mere coal deposit.

The substance was supposedly found in crystal form. It was often times dangerous to mine, occasionally combusting when struck. Or sometimes it created ice. Or made gravity disappear for a moment. Sometimes, it created raw electricity.

Ozmund was immediately on guard when he’d heard about this “Dust”. It put him on edge. And with the revelation from Glynda, Ozmund was even more uncertain. Was magic somehow slowly returning to their world? But why? The Gods had taken all of the magic away, and now they were giving it back to them—in mere fractions and crystals? Or was something else going on here?

Willow nods. “You know Jacque,” she mutters. “Always trying to expand the business…”

“I’m sorry to hear of it.”

“Yes. I know.” She sighs. “I don’t know how long this task of yours will take. I fear I may only be capable of giving you a few months, if we’re lucky. It’s up in the air right now. It just depends on how long my mother will last.”

Ozmund thinks for a second. “I should… probably go say hello to her.”

Willow smiles. “She would love that.”

They make their way into a bedroom with a king-sized bed. The old woman seemed tragically tiny on it, due to her frailness.

“Mum,” Willow says gently, placing a hand on her arm, “you awake? Ozmund is here.”

The woman cracks open her eyes. She turns her head, looking upon them. “I can see that,” she says in a raspy voice. She smiles a kind, wrinkly smile. “Ozmund. It’s good to see you.” They both take a seat at her bedside and she clasps one of Willow’s hands in hers. “Well now, Oz. Have you any stories for me today?”

Ozmund nods. “I always do.”

“Indeed.” She laughs.

They sit beside her for a while as he recounts a tale about two brothers. Willow and her mother listen on quietly, until Willow excuses herself halfway through to go check on the children. That leaves him to finish his story to her mother alone.

As expected, the old woman falls back asleep a third of the way through.

Ozmund glances towards the door, making sure Willow was still gone before reaching out and clasping one of the old woman’s hand in both of his. “I need you to live a while longer,” he whispers. “I need Oscar here, with you and Willow, where I know he’ll be safe and taken care of.” He summons a fair sum of magic, allowing it to flow from him into her, feeling it mend muscle and bone, reversing the illness slowly consuming the older woman.

Osmond dispels the illness entirely, even gives her back a few of her years.

Almost immediately, her breathing grows the slightest bit easier.

Ozmund battles back dizziness and fatigue. Once he’s gained his bearings, he leans down to kiss the woman’s forehead. “Please, take care of Oscar for me. And Willow, too. She’s quite lost right now.”

The old woman’s eyes crack open, staring up at him. “What?” she asks, looking more alert, though still slightly weary. “Goodness, did I fall asleep in the middle of your story, Ozmund? My apologies. I don’t know what came over me…”

“No worries at all, Fria. Go ahead and get some rest.”

She hums contently, the pain that had ghosted her face now completely gone. Her features look far more relaxed. “You’re an angel, Ozmund. Truly.”

Ozmund squeezes her hand and slips out the door, closing it quietly behind him.

He’s just bought himself more precious time, though at the cost of a fair amount of magic. He has to pray that it was worth the loss. Though the mere fraction he had used seemed like very little, it was from a slowly dwindling pool. Even a fraction of it was still a big loss in the grand scheme of things, in that it meant that it was magic he couldn’t use against Salem later.

However, with Fria’s illness gone, Willow will be able to live with her for far longer, and hopefully will be able to keep away from Jacques for far longer, too. She’ll be able to keep an eye on Oscar for longer as well.

With that spare time, they have to find all of the Relics.

And keep them from falling into Salem’s hands.

\----

Ozmund tries to leave without Oscar noticing. But Oscar always notices when he’s gone.

The boy wails in Willow’s arms, extending his little hands out to Ozmund as he watches him leave the house without him.

“OSHEE!” he sobs, “OSHEE!

Ozmund retreats back to kiss him on the forehead. “Ozzie will be back, Oscar. I’ll be back, okay?”

"Be careful out there, Oz," Willow adds. "There are rumors about you, you know. There are people who will be looking for you."

"Rumors?"

Willow eyes him carefully. " Not many people go by the name of _Oz_. And I only know of one man who does."

Ozmund bows his head. "And yet... you trust me anyway? Even knowing who I am?"

"I do," Willow replies. "Warlock or King-Ozma or Oz or Ozmund-or whoever you are... I trust you."

"I haven't really given you a reason to trust me."

"You didn't have to give me a reason." Willow smiles. "You listened, and you tried to understand things from my perspective. That was all I needed."

Ozmund smiles, clasping Oscar's little fists in his hands. "Please, take care of him for me, Willow. He means the world to me."

"I shall."

And with that, Ozmund forces himself to pull away.

“OSHEE! OSHEE!” Oscar cries as Ozmund once again starts to leave. He clenches onto his hand as long as he can before it slips out of his grasp.

His heart aches at Oscar’s cries. He tells himself it’s for the best.

Willow bounces him in her arms and tries to reassure him, but it only seems to make Oscar angrier.

 _I’m sorry._ Ozmund’s heart clenches in his chest. _I know you don’t understand right now, Oscar. But I_ will _be back for you. I just… I have to make this world_ safe _for you first. I want you to live a long and happy life._

“OSHEE—!”

The door closes and Ozmund swears he can still hear the boy’s screams for him, can still see his fingers grasping at the empty air for him.

Ironwood rests a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll be okay, Oz.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “That won’t stop me from worrying about him, but… it’s a sacrifice I have to make in order to keep him safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh noooo I separated them :(((


	7. Something Only I Can Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ozmund starts to doubt his abilities a little, but finds that he can help a small soul in a way that Ozma simply couldn't. Also, I love writing this team as adorable goofballs ;D

Ozmund concentrates on the world around him.

The breathing of the trees, the sentient shadows lurking within them, and the whispers along the riverbeds. The gurgling fish, the surrounding birdsong, the shuffling of rodents in their burrows and insects traversing the ground.

He is one with the world, his soul born from its fire, his heart crafted at its center, his magic birthed from its own. Like a tree, he’s planted himself into the darkest dirt and sweetest soils, letting his magic spread to the furthest corners of meadow, of mountain, of forest and hillside.

He can feel the air deep in his bones, and the roaring of thunderclouds hundreds of miles away. He becomes the connective tissues between land and sea—the master of everything.

He is—

“OZMUUUND!”

Ozmund shuffles slightly and sighs. Okay. Breathe. Refocus.

He is—

“ _OZMUND_!”

Ozmund snaps his eyes open. He takes a deep breath and releases the tension in his shoulders before replying with a slightly-still-aggravated, “ _Yes_ , James?”

“Did you find anything yet?”

“I’ll _tell_ you when I find something. Until then, may I _please_ have some peace and quiet? This is going to take a great amount of energy and time and work! I’m scouring the _entire globe_ mere inches at a time and your distractions aren’t helping—!”

“Alright. Fine. Go, almighty wizard, and scour the globe with your ancient magical… whatever’s.” James holds up two pieces of bread. “But first, how do you like your sandwich?”

Ozmund sighs. “Ham and cheese. No crust… and can you cut it down the middle?”

“Really? The wizard likes his sandwiches without crust?”

“The crust is the driest and worst part about sandwiches, James!”

“Alright. Alright. Yeesh. You get _cranky_ when you’re hungry, do you know that?”

Ironwood wanders off and Ozmund resituates himself.

He takes a deep breath and refocuses.

Alright.

Wind, trees, grass, hills, world, riverbed, shadows. All of that stuff. Okay. Great. Breathing. Becoming. _Being_ —

There’s someone in his face.

He waves the distraction away without opening his eyes. “ _Glynda_. _Shoo_.”

“You look constipated.”

“ _I’m fine_. I just need to _concentrate_.” He pinches his brows together, thinking harder.

Refocus. REFOCUS.

_TREES, TREES, TREES, OR WHATEVER—FOCUS, OZ!_

His eyes fly open. “DID YOU JUST CUT THAT SANDWITCH INTO _RECTANGLES_?!”

“YOU SAID TO CUT IT!” Ironwood yells back.

“ _NO_! EVERYONE KNOWS YOU CUT THEM INTO _TRIANGLES_!” Ozmund growls and falls off the rock he’s sitting on, falling flat into the dirt. He stares angrily up at the sky. He’s been trying to do this for the past few days—since they first got on the _road_ , and still—!

“I can’t do it.”

“What do you mean you can’t do it?” Glynda asks, leaning over him. “You said you were good at energy magic and focusing and all of that drivel.”

“Do you recall what I said about energy magic requiring compassion? Gentleness, awareness, kindness?”

Glynda shrugs. “Sure.”

Ozmund makes a face. “ _Ozma_ was an incredibly passionate and kind man, a noble warrior down to his core. That’s undoubtedly true. _Ozmund_ was a lowly farrier from a town of bandits known for their nasty attitudes. And he was, and still partly is…” He smacks his hands over his face. “ _Antisocial. Lame._ _Dimwitted_ … Ozmund. He’s just—I’m just… _Ozmund_.”

“Hey. Don’t be too hard on… half... of... yourself, I guess...” Ironwood leans over him as well. He places a sandwich on his chest.

Ozmund picks up two halves in each hand, “I am like this sandwich. One half is greater than the other, in both size and mayonnaise…”

“Oh, but the other half of the sandwich is still just as good, Oz,” Glynda says gently.

“It’s got a stray pickle in it.”

“ _I_ like pickles,” Ironwood replies.

Ozmund sits up, viewing both halves of the sandwich. “I suppose there _is_ something poetic to be made here. Even though they were cut in half, they’re both still part of one whole sandwich, so… Wait a minute…” He puts the two pieces together, only to find that, no, they don’t actually fit together at all. He slowly looks up and sends Ironwood a deadpan stare.

“I-I dropped the other half,” Ironwood admits shamefully.

Ozmund takes a bite out of the part with the pickle and deflates back into the dirt. “Of course. It’s dry and disappointing…”

“You know, Ozmund, you have a bad habit of throwing yourself pity parties,” Ironwood says. “Did this sense of failure _also_ come from Ozmund? It’s hard to believe one man can carry so much despair and… dreariness.”

Glynda elbows him. “ _James_.”

“I’m getting there.” Ironwood sits on the rock. He leans forward, his shadow engulfing Ozmund completely. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I doubt _Ozma_ was a perfect sandwich.”

“He was a _better_ sandwich,” Ozmund grumbles.

“That’s a matter of opinion. I didn’t know Ozma. But I know _you_. So you might not be as good at energy magic as Ozma was. That’s fine. We can find other ways to find the Relics.”

“Right,” Glynda agrees, fixing her glasses on her nose. “There are _always_ other ways.”

Ozmund sighs and picks himself up from the dirt. Ironwood reaches out and dusts off his shoulders. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t sulk so much.”

Ironwood fixes him with a serious look. “Ozmund. It’s fine to sulk. What I’m not okay with is you blaming yourself for everything. Every little thing. Whether it be Salem or someone merely spilling a glass of milk— _you always apologize_. I really wish you’d stop. Because, honestly,” Ironwood smirks playfully, “it’s _very_ annoying.”

Ozmund exhales slowly. “I just wish I was better. I wish… I wish Ozma were here. I wonder if _Ozmund_ managed to even mess up the magical process that merged us together. A curse from _The God of Light_ , and he somehow _broke_ it— _I_ broke it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because—even if we _did_ merge completely, somehow—I don’t _feel_ like Ozma—brave warrior, noble soul… I feel like I’m just Ozmund, the disappointment. A plain, dry sandwich… with a stray, sad little pickle in the middle.”

Glynda, surprisingly, chuckles. “I think that’s okay for now. Let’s just sit down and eat for a while. Maybe you just need a break.”

Ozmund nods and follows her and Ironwood under the shade of a nearby tree. There, they finish their lunch, chatting quietly to each other.

Once they’ve finished, they pack up their small quantity of things and they’re on the road again.

Ozmund hangs back, trying to dig deep into himself and pry Ozma out. However, there’s nobody there. It’s like all traces of him had disappeared, other than his memories and his magic.

They pass a farm, far out in the middle of nowhere. Ozmund looks up and sees a horse in its stable, his heart rising at the sight of it.

If there’s one thing Ozmund knew more of than Ozma, it was horses.

However, his glee quickly dies as he looks upon the mare. He goes into awestruck horror.

“Wait.”

Ironwood looks back, “What is it?”

Glynda stops as well, “We just had a bathroom break five minutes ago, Oz—”

“It’s not that.” Without thinking, Ozmund pulls himself through the fence boards and hurries to the stables, despite Glynda and Ironwood’s calls for him to stop.

The horse turns its head away shyly as he approaches. “Hey, hey,” he hushes it, clicking his tongue. “You’re alright. Let me see you.” The mare looks him in the eyes. He pets down her nose gently. She’s thin—tragically so. Judging by the trough, she hadn’t been fed or watered in a long time. He leans over the stable door, peering down at her hooves. He thought as much. Overgrown. She hasn’t been let outside in a long time, either.

“Oz, what are you doing?” Ironwood asks, approaching him. “This is somebody’s property—”

“Somebody either very neglectful or dead. Or someone who’s _going_ to be dead when _I_ get my hands on them.” Ozmund feels hot fury shoot through his veins. He shakes the thought away and opens the stable door. “You and Glynda check the house. I need to take care of this.” He can practically feel Ironwood and Glynda’s uncertain glances. “I _know_ this. It’s one of the few things _Ozmund_ is good at. So… I have to do it. I know you might not understand, but—”

“We get it, Oz,” Ironwood reassures. “We’ll check the house.”

Once the two are gone, he tries to coax the mare out of the stable. Understandably, she doesn’t want to walk. Her hooves are in a horrible condition.

Oz glances around quickly. “It’s alright. Wait here.”

He takes off toward the shed. Nearby is a coop where chickens might have been housed. He finds only a few feathers, and a couple splotches of old blood. As he makes his way up to the shed, he finds deep claw marks going down the door. He opens it cautiously, and nearly vomits at the repulsive smell that hits him.

Ozmund smacks a hand over his nose and mouth, staring at the corpse on the ground.

Not a neglectful farmer, then. Dead farmer. A _very, very_ dead farmer.

Ozmund sees the tools he needs behind the corpse. He hardens his resolve and carefully steps around the body.

An army of flies floods the air, buzzing angrily at the disturbance.

A string of terrified curses falls out of his mouth. He grabs the tools and stumbles out of the shed, taking in a desperate gasp of fresh air as he hurries out.

_Don’t think about it, Oz, don’t think about it—it’ll only make it worse!_

He forces himself to try to forget what he saw, but the sight of the corpse is burned into his retinas. The blood gone black with time, the repulsive smell of rotting meat, the gashes spilling out a tangled mess of guts and flies and maggots—

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!_

Ozmund makes his way back to the horse, wrapping his arms around her neck as a way to console both himself and her.

_I couldn’t help him, but I can help you, at least…_

He takes in a few calming breaths and pulls back, looking the horse in her gentle eyes. “I’m sorry, girl. You must have seen something terrible…” He pats her nose again. “Let’s get you fixed up, okay?”

\----

Glynda and Ironwood search the house. The front door is wide open, and the wooden floors covered in claw marks and fallen objects.

“Ozmund was right. Looks like a Grimm attack,” Ironwood says, touching the claw marks running down the wall closest to him.

“Happened quite a while ago, I think,” Glynda replies, observing a part of the floor, viewing a dry splatter. She didn’t need to guess what it was. It was definitely blood, but… no bodies… Perhaps the people here managed to escape?

No. That was far too much of a hopeful thought.

“HELLO?!” Ironwood calls upstairs. “ANYONE HOME?!”

“SHH!” Glynda rears on him, “What if the Grimm are still here?!”

“Then we’ll take care of them,” Ironwood shrugs nonchalantly.

“Oh? With what weapons?”

“I, um, uh…” Ironwood turns to a glass care nearby. “With that weapon.” He smashes the case open with his elbow and reaches inside.

“Do you even know how to _use_ that?”

“My grandfather taught me how to use this really old musket. We fixed it up ourselves and I used to use it against Grimm that made their way into town,” Ironwood says excitedly. “It was awesome! I’m a pretty good shot! It was all—BOOM! BOOM!”

“I think it’s more of a BANG! BANG!” Glynda corrects, miming the act of using the weapon.

“PSHEW!”

“BLAMO!”

“ _Blamo_?” Ironwood repeats, making a face.

“It kind of sounds like a _blamo_. Does that thing even have any bullets?”

Ironwood examines the shotgun rather expertly for someone who’s never used one before. “Hm. Doesn’t look like it. I’m surprised there even _is_ a shotgun here. It’s not easy to get your hands on one. They have to be specially made. This one looks fairly new, too.”

“What’s that down the side? It looks like a name.”

Ironwood outright cackles as he reads the text. “ _The Grimm Slayer_! HEY, FARMER! I’M STEALING YOUR BADASS SHOTGUN! ARE YOU OKAY WITH THAT?!”

“Will you stop _yelling,_ please? You’re going to alert every Grimm in the whole world that we’re here!”

“That’s it. From now on, no more jewelry and fancy canes. I want to learn how to make _this_ baby. BLAMO! BANG, BANG! KABOOM!”

“James, quit being a man for two seconds and _focus_.”

“Oh, right, sorry.” He clears his throat and straitens himself.

They explore deeper into the house, Ironwood perusing with the shotgun held up, like it actually had bullets in it he could use. Glynda rolls her eyes, trying to smother her amused smirk. If it weren’t for her pride, she would probably give in to such childish whims, too. She honestly had to respect Ironwood for that. He was unabashedly true to himself.

“Hey, James?”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you doing this anyways? Deciding to risk your neck for Oz like this? Especially when you were so skeptical of him at first.”

“I’m not doing it for Oz,” Ironwood replies. He finally lowers the shotgun, his face more serious. “I’m doing it for me. If Salem and the Grimm can be stopped, then… that means less kids out there afraid at night. Means less of them go without their mothers and fathers. It means, well… _security_. And also…” That stupid grin returns in full. “I bet it’d feel pretty great to shoot a Grimm point-blank in the face.”

Glynda laughs. “You’re ridiculous, James. You can’t even make a sandwich right, and here you are trying to save the world.”

“Well, what about you? Why are you here?”

“Because I don’t want either of you two screwing things up.”

“Really? _That’s_ your big reason?”

“So what if it is?” Glynda adjusts her glasses, which had been slipping down her nose. She steels her expression, trying to appear as serious as possible. Ironwood seems to take her word for it and drops the subject.

While his back is turned, she glances down at her hands, which were snug in a pair of black gloves. She wrings her fingers nervously, her skin feeling itchy and somehow cold. “Actually, James… I—”

“Wait.” Ironwood holds up a hand.

At first, Glynda doesn’t hear anything.

Then there’s a clatter, and a bear-like grunt.

They creep closer. A kitchen comes into view. The back door lay burst apart in little splinters across the floor. The shuffling and grunting get louder as they approach.

Ironwood presses his back against the wall and peeks around it. He quickly jerks back, glancing worriedly at Glynda. “Ursa,” he mouths silently.

Glynda’s eyes go wide. “Minor?” she mouths back, though she knows the universe wouldn’t be so kind.

Ironwood shakes his head.

Glynda dares to look past Ironwood. She pokes her head carefully around the wall.

There, from the window in the kitchen, she catches sight of an Ursa Major shuffling outside. Was it summoned by Ironwood’s shouting or was it just a coincidence?

Either way, they were _far_ too underequipped to handle an Ursa Major. Not unless, she…

She wrings her hands again. Hopefully, it won’t have to come to that. She takes a deep breath and mentally steadies herself.

_Calm, Glynda. Be calm. Giving into fear will only catch its attention._

Ironwood motions her towards the front door and they both start slowly making their way backwards.

There’s a louder growl from the Ursa and more sniffing. It makes its way closer, becoming visible in the window right across from them. If it only just turned its head a few inches more, it would easily spot them.

_Calm, calm, calm—be calm—be calm—be calm—!_

Glynda cringes as glass from the case Ironwood had broken crackles under her shoes. Ironwood freezes as well, his face also visibly pulling into a pained wince.

Suddenly, the Grimm jerks its head around, pinning them with its burning red eyes. It slowly raises itself onto its hind legs and bellows an ear-splitting roar.

Glynda grabs Ironwood’s arm. “Run,” she squeaks.

“Yeah, no shit,” Ironwood says faintly. They stumble over each other back toward the front door. “Question, though: where do we run to get away from an _Ursa Major_?!”

“To the ancient, magical wizard-man who can blast it with _fire_! Where else?!” Glynda shouts, trying to ignore the sounds of crashing and roaring as the Ursa rampages after them. They exit the house and burst back outside.

However, Glynda was aware of the speed of the Ursa Grimm. They could charge far faster than people could ever run. She glances back and finds the Ursa right there, lifting a heavy paw to strike at her. It only misses because Ironwood pushes her down.

They both fall to the dirt hard and the Ursa rears up, raising both its paws up to crush them beneath its massive weight.

Ironwood flinches, shielding her with his body, though she knows that won’t do much good. He’d break under that Ursa like a plank of wood.

She wraps an arm around him and lashes out with her other hand, raising power from her fury and fear.

The Grimm grunts and stumbles back, but it’s not enough. She needs something more—she needs—!

Her eye catches on something sharp and pointy.

She grits her teeth.

_Okay, Glynda! Relax, focus, breathe, and—!_

She grips her hand into a fist and an object goes flying through the air, getting the Grimm right through the eye.

The Ursa roars, receding back and pawing at its face.

A painful ringing hits her ears, wracking her brain as the Ursa starts to get back up, bellowing furiously.

"STAY DOWN!"

A flash of blue and dark green darts past them. Suddenly, Ozmund is there in front of them, startlingly small in front of the monstrous Ursa.

Then there's a bright orange flash of something that isn't _quite_ fire, but it was burning red and hot. It consumes the Ursa entirely until, in a small, contained explosion, the beast bursts in a plume of blinging, red light, breaking apart piece by piece under the force of Ozmund's magic.

Glynda's eyes readjust.

She witnesses as Ozmund turns to them with a bright smile on his face, like he _hadn't_ just eradicated an Ursa Major with an easy flick of his hand.

"Are you both alright?"

Glynda inhales, regathering the breath that had left her chest at the display of such raw power. Would _she_ ever be capable of doing something like that?

She can feel Ironwood's own labored breathing above her and feel his pounding heart against hers. She releases her arm from around him and he slowly sits back and looks over his shoulder. His eyes settle on the riding crop, lying where the Ursa had been standing just seconds before.

"Did... did you throw a _crop_ at it?"

Ozmund's eyes dart to Glynda. "I-"

"No," Glynda cuts in. "Actually, I was going for that pitchfork over there." She succumbs to the ringing in her head. Some magical pressure hits her skull at full force, and she falls to the dirt like a limp noodle. “That's what I was trying to say before,” she slurs. “Let it be known that I make for a pretty good Witch, I think. Oz is just a show off.”

Ozmund's brief laugh hits her ears. "If it means anything, I thought your riding crop trick was _very_ impressive. Why, if you'd thrown the pitchfork instead, you might've actually won that battle."

"Oh, shut up, Oz," she manages to grumble before she passes out cold.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ozmund helping a horsy :3  
> Also, yay, now Ironwood knows Glynda's secret!  
> This was actually longer, but I had to split it cause it got suuuuuuper long. I'll post the other half probably tomorrow cause it needs some fixing up after being hacked and sliced and edited around due to me trying to cram everything into one chapter and then ultimately deciding to just split it cause I'm a MORON and didn't think about that until it was too late and.... uh...  
> Anyway, I'll, um.....  
> I-I'll smack a few band aids on it. You'll never even notice!!!!  
> Hahha....  
> Oops... D_D


	8. Anomalies and Apricots

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new animal companion joins the party, Ozmund learns the importance of a landing strategy, a strange new fellow is encountered in the woods. And Apologies = Apricots. Oh, right, and literally everyone failed perception checks....

“So this doesn’t come as a surprise to you at all?! Figures! Of course _I’d_ be the last to know about this!”

Ironwood lays Glynda down, propping her head up with a rolled up sleeping bag from his backpack. He sits down next to her, watching Ozmund go over to the horse standing by the stables.

He pauses to pick up a tool and lifts one of mare’s hooves from the ground. “Don’t be angry with her, Ironwood. The only known Witch in all the world is Salem, who doesn’t exactly have the most wonderful or reputations. Glynda was just trying to keep herself safe, that’s all.” He starts to clip down the hoof, working quickly and precisely.

“Yes, but from me? I’ve known her far longer than you have!”

“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Ozmund replies without looking up from his work. There’s another beat of quiet.

“Is she… She _is_ alright, isn’t she? She isn’t hurt?”

“No, no, she’s fine.” Ozmund switches from his clipper to a file. “Just exhausted from expelling too much magic. She’s not quite skilled with her gift yet. Happened to me too at first—”

“ _Gift_?” Ironwood stresses. “This isn’t a _gift_. Like you said, Oz, this could have her killed! And unlike you, she doesn’t have the ability to come back! This is… _dangerous_ is what it is! She could be imprisoned or whipped to death or burned at the stake—any number of things!”

“Then we’ll have to be extra cautious, won’t we? Don’t worry, James. I won’t let anything bad happen to her, and I know you won’t either.” That doesn’t seem to fully convince him. Ozmund decides to switch the subject. “There wasn’t anyone in the house, was there?”

Ironwood shakes his head. “No… No one…”

“In the shed,” Ozmund mutters, “the owner died there… You can check if you want, but…” He sighs deeply. “They don’t even do it for food, you know. They just kill for the sake of killing…”

Ironwood clenches his hands. “Believe me. I know.”

They carry on in silence, with Ironwood keeping an eye on Glynda while Ozmund finishes up the other hooves. Once he’s completed them all, he pats the mare’s side. “Come on now.” He clicks his tongue, guiding the mare over to the fields of grass.

She walks a bit stiffly at first, used to feeling pain in her overgrown hooves. After a bit of walking, though, she starts pacing a bit more normally, though her gate was still weak from lack of nourishment and exercise.

Ozmund can feel her gratefulness as she takes her first bites of grass. She probably hasn’t had the luxury in weeks, spending an unknown number of torturous days, staring out at the fields longingly from her stable.

He grabs a nearby bucket and uses the well pump to gather some water. Bucket by bucket, he fills up a trough. He brushes the mare down while she eats and drinks, detangling her matted mane and tail.

“There you are,” he whispers, pulling her bangs out of her eyes. “You’ve been through so much. What do you think about leaving this place, hm? You want to come along on an adventure?” The mare butts him with her snout, and he laughs. “I thought so.”

The mare follows him back to Ironwood. He grabs the reins and harness from the stables, then a few blankets.

“What are you doing?” Ironwood asks.

“I’m taking her with us.”

“Why?”

Ozmund stares at him in shock. “James, this is a draft horse. They’re used for work and war. Honestly, they’re some of the best horses one can own. She might not look like much right now, but once she gets some weight back on her, she’ll be downright invincible.”

Ironwood shrugs. “If you say so. But it’s your responsibility.”

“That sounds fair to me.” Ozmund grabs the tools he’d used to file down and clean the mare’s hooves. He finds room for them in his bag. It would be best to have them, just in case.

“How are those tools, in your opinion?” Ironwood suddenly asks.

“Oh, splendid! They’re brand new! Made my silly, little farrier heart skip a few beats—!”

“Everything here is brand new,” Ironwood cuts in. “And this farmer sure owned a lot of expensive things for someone living out in the middle of nowhere… Which is also quite bold, considering the surrounding forests. They’re lurking with Grimm—powerful ones—if the current state of the house and that Ursa Major are anything to go by.”

“Hmm…” Ozmund thinks on that for a second. “I fear this mystery will have to go unsolved, for now. I’d like to get back on the road. I believe I would feel better if we were… somewhere else.”

“What is it? The corpse? Were you shaken that terribly by it?”

Ozmund looks away.

“Surely, you’ve seen corpses before, considering your line of work from… well, before you became Ozmund. When you were just Ozma, I suppose? The warrior?”

Ozmund shakes his head. “It’s not about corpses. It’s about death. Ozma’s time was far kinder. But Ozmund— _me_ …”

“Have you seen death, Ozmund?”

“I witnessed the deaths of little four girls who weren’t mine, and yet... still somehow felt like they were mine. And before that was my village. That village of bandits and killers.” He gets a distant look on his face. “I have seen death in great numbers,” he mutters. “That corpse just… brought back some buried memories…” He turns his head, surveying Ironwood. “Have you ever seen someone die before, James?”

Ironwood nods. “My parents. And my grandfather. And I’ve seen quite a number of people fall to Grimm—nameless, those corpses. I can’t even remember their faces now. Like you said. Grimm don’t hunt to eat. They just do it because they can, whenever they want.” He shakes his head. “But enough about corpses. This kind of negativity will only summon more Grimm.”

“S-sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything about the corpse.”

“Hey. Now what’d I’d say about apologizing?”

“Oh. Sorry—”

“Okay now that’s _two_ apologies.”

“Oops, sorry!”

“That’s three—”

The wizard grows even more flustered. “Agh, they just keep tumbling about, I’m so sorr—!”

Ironwood claps a hand over Ozmund’s mouth. “Just shh! You don’t have to apologize to me! Over anything! Ever! Got it?”

Ozmund nods with a muffled, “Mm-hm.”

“Good. Now, c’mon, oh great, wizardly farrier. Let’s see if we can either find a town or some place to camp out for the night.”

Ironwood picks up Glynda while Ozmund pulls along the mare by her harness.

They only take a few steps before Ozmund suddenly hisses and collapses, clutching his thigh. “Sorry, my leg—”

Ironwood sighs and helps the man up. “How’s about this,” he says, lifting Ozmund up to sit on top of the mare. “Every time you think about saying that word, just say something else instead. Like, um… _apricots_! That’s a good word.”

Ozmund laughs. “I can try.”

“Great.” Ironwood grabs the horse’s reins, leading them back on the road.

Ozmund feels a little better as they leave the farm behind, though he can’t help the shivers that scuttle up his back as he recalls the farmer’s dead face.

Those unfocused eyes seemed like they’d stared right back at him… Had this been the work of a worse kind of Grimm, they might have been. In that sense, they were very lucky, even though he didn’t feel it.

\---

Glynda gasps awake with a start, which in turn startles Ironwood.

“AH!”

“GAH!”

“JAMES!”

“GYNDA!”

“ _JAMES_!” Glynda seethes, kicking out her legs. “PUT ME DOWN THIS INSTANT!” Ironwood places her back on the ground. She rightens herself quickly and brushes off her pants. “What happened?! Where are we?! Is that a horse?!”

Ironwood and Ozmund glance at each other.

“Her name is Yellowbrick.”

“That is the least helpful question you could have answered, Oz!”

“Well then why did you ask?”

“Alright. Let me just get right down to things.” Ironwood steps forward and clears his throat. “YOU HAVE MAGIC?! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?! WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?! I’VE KNOWN YOU SINCE WE WERE TWELVE YEARS OLD! I THOUGHT WE WERE COMPANIONS!”

“I, uh, well—?” Glynda is for once at a loss for words. She shakes herself. “I didn’t mean to—!”

“To what? Keep secrets from me? Well, you did.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I just… didn’t know how to tell you!”

“You told Oz!”

“I _didn’t_ tell Oz! Oz has a bad habit of sneaking up on people!”

“I don’t exactly intend to,” Ozmund taps his fingers along his cane. “It just happens. Umm… Apricot?”

“Don’t get cute with me by giving me some weird nickname, and also, walk louder from now on!” Glynda snaps. “And I’m not going to apologize! There’s no way I was going to risk being burned alive at the stake! I had to keep this a closely guarded secret! Even from you!”

“You’re right, Glynda…” Ironwood turns abruptly and walks right past her. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to brood about it!”

Glynda groans. “Do you _have_ to, James?”

“I don’t have to. But I want to. And that’s reason enough!” He continues marching down the road.

Glynda looks to Ozmund, pleading silently for help.

“Don’t look at me,” he says, “this is your mess. Apricot.”

“Could you at least tell me what’s up with the horse? Also, what’d I say about the weird nicknaming?”

“Oh, right. As I said, this is Yellowbrick. She’s from the farm and I’m taking her along with us. I couldn’t just leave her there all alone, you know. As for the apricot thing—”

“Wait! So, _he_ gets a shotgun, and _you_ get a horse! And what did _I_ get out of all this? Ironwood’s incessant pouting is what!”

“IT’S NOT POUTING! BROODING! AND THAT’S ACTUALLY NOT TRUE! I PICKED THIS UP FOR YOU!”

Ironwood tosses something over his shoulder.

Glynda fumbles to catch the item. She looks over it, her face going red with anger. “ _REALLY_?! YOU GRABBED THE CROP INSTEAD OF THE PITCHFORK?!”

“It’s not about it being a weapon. Think of it as…” Ozmund pauses. “A souvenir!”

“IT’S JUST A LOT LESS IMPRESSIVE THAN OUR SOUVENIERS, THAT’S ALL!”

Glynda fumes. She shoves up her sleeve and advances forward, ready to knock the sense back into Ironwood’s brain. Ozmund catches her hand.

“How about we all cool our heads, hm? This forest is crawling with Grimm, and I’d rather they not be drawn to us through your reckless squabbling.”

Glynda crosses her arms, grumbling, “Fine. I’ll keep the lame riding crop souvenir, if only just to smack James’ fat head with it whenever I please.”

They carry onward in silence.

\---

They travel for several more hours. Over the course of which Glynda and Ironwood give each other the silent treatment. Ozmund was keen on staying out of it, so he doesn’t say anything. Truthfully, with the two of them quiet, he’s better able to concentrate on sensing the magic of the Relics.

Although, as the silence extends into a fourth hour, he’s finally had enough. “Alright. I’m going to ride ahead on Yellowbrick. If the two of you haven’t figured things out by the time I get back, I’m going to set you both on fire.”

“You can try,” Glynda challenges. “I’ll send you flying into a tree if you do!”

“And then not tell me about it, right?” Ironwood cuts in.

The two start to argue and Ozmund sighs in exasperation. “Come along now, Yellowbrick. Let’s give them some time to work things out.”

He tries to climb onto the horse’s back. Though, with no saddle and his bum leg, he comes to an embarrassing realization. He glances at Ironwood helplessly, but he’s too busy fighting with Glynda to notice. He tries again to get onto Yellowbrick. No luck.

He goes around to the other side of the mare, and once more fails to get on.

“MY GODS, OZ! JUST GO ALREADY!”

“I can’t,” Ozmund admits dejectedly, shoulders slumping. “I can’t get on the horse…”

“UGH! HERE!” Glynda flicks out her hand, riding crop clenched between her fingers, and Ozmund fumbles back.

“WAIT, NOT WITH THE—!”

All of a sudden, he goes flying through the air. The treetops flash past him as an orange and red, spinning blur, the sky looping all around him. A Nevermore squawks in astoundment as he zooms past, too shocked to even fly after him. Ozmund flails, trying to catch a glimpse of what was up and what was down.

His eyes finally catch sight of the ground below, careening right towards him.

_LANDING STRATEGY, OZ! LANDING STRATEGY!_

He finally comes to his senses and focuses. He slows himself down with a green field of gravity magic, crawling to a more manageable speed, though he can’t correct himself completely. He lands hard on the dirt and rolls down a steep ditch, ultimately stopping face-down in a shallow stream.

He rises, spitting mud from his mouth.

_Glynda! When I get my hands on you, I’ll—!_

“AHH!” Someone screams and Ozmund starts, looking up to find a man approaching the ditch. He points down at him dramatically. “A MUD BEAST!”

“What?” Ozmund sputters more mud from his mouth. “I’m not a mud beast!”

“…You look like one,” comes a small, hesitant reply.

“Well, I’m not, I promise. I’m just a man looking for a way to get out of this ditch, if you’re willing to help me.”

A pause.

“You’re _sure_ you’re not some impressive, new kind of muddy beast?”

Ozmund shakes his head, splatting mud everywhere, and wipes the dirt from his eyes. “Um… I’m fairly certain I’m not.”

The man stares down at him from over the rims of his glasses. “Oh, I see. Well, that is marvelously less interesting! Here!” The man pulls off his backpack and pulls free a rope. He ties it securely around a tree and tosses the end down to him.

Ozmund grabs it and uses it to help pull himself free from the mud. However, his bum leg fails him once more and buckles beneath him. His gloves slip from the rope and he falls back into the mud. “Sorry,” he calls up to the man, “just give me a second.”

“Ah! I forgot to ask! You’re not injured are you, Mr. Not-A-Mud-Beast?”

“It’s Ozmund, actually. And, no, I’m not. It’s just a bad leg, that’s all.”

“A bad leg? Does it possibly require a scolding?”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing! A joke! Should I come down and lend my assistance?”

“No, I have it.” Ozmund pulls off his gloves and tucks them into his pocket. Without them, it’s a lot easier to grasp onto the rope. One painful step at a time, he climbs up the trench. He nearly stumbles all the way back down, but a firm hand grabs him by the coat and pulls him the rest of the way.

“No shame in asking for help, you know.”

“Yes, well…” Ozmund distracts himself by wiping the mud off his face and coat. “What are you doing all the way out here in the forest, anyway?”

“I was about to ask the same thing of you! I figured you might be a fellow explorer!”

“Explorer?” Ozmund eyes the man’s hat, coat, and backpack. At his hip was a hefty club-like weapon. He certainly appeared ready to face the elements of nature, if not an entire forest full of Grimm.

“Well, researcher, more like,” the man says brightly, adjusting his glasses with a wide smile. “I’m observing pack dynamics amongst Beowolves!”

“You’re… observing _Grimm_? Whatever for?”

“Well to learn how to better fight them of course! The more you know about the enemy, the easier you’re able to take them down! Believe it or not, I’ve observed that the weakest of the Beowolves stay at the front of the pack, while the stronger Beowolves tend to stay in the back. I’m still trying to figure out if this is for the protection of the weaker Beowolves or if it’s so that they get picked off first when they come across an enemy! And yet that begs several questions: if it is for the protection of the weaker Beowolves, would that be indicative of Beowolves having some form of emotion or thought—real, true mental or emotional intelligence?! Or if it _is_ a formation meant to guard against bigger enemies, what would dare hunt down a Beowolf pack?! Other Grimm?! Do they believe humans or regular animals a threat?! Or is it strictly for the hunt, if Beowolves even need to eat?! Does any Grimm _need_ to eat?! Do they produce waste?! Do they breed?! Nobody’s brave enough to look into the Grimm, so it falls onto me— _Doctor_ _Bartholomew Oobleck_! These hands of mine meant to _carve out_ the very _future_ of _humanity_! To battle back against these forces of evil using _knowledge itself_!”

“O-oh…” Ozmund takes a second to process all of that, the man talking at incredible speeds, his hands waving sporadically in the air around him. “Well, that’s… very interesting. I never would have thought to study the Grimm in such a way.”

“Really?” Doctor Bartholomew Oobleck leans forward. “That sounds as though you have thought about studying them in some _other_ form. In what way, I’m inclined to ask.”

Ozmund laughs, feeling a little awkward. “Oh. Well… Mostly it was the more… horse-like Grimm I wondered about. And my ideas were more along the lines of… the equestrian.”

“Riding. Grimm?”

“Y-yeah. It’s probably a terrible idea—”

“NONSENSE! THAT’S THE MOST FASCINATING IDEA I’VE EVER HEARD!” Dr. Oobleck shakes him viciously by the arms. “IT’S BRILLIANT! Would you mind if I picked your brain even further on this subject matter?!”

“I’m not entirely certain I’ll be of much use. I’m just some farrier, really—”

“A FARRIER IS A MOST NOBLE OCCUPATION!” Dr. Oobleck shouts, shaking him harder.

“R-really?” Ozmund flushes, his brain spinning a little from all the manhandling. “You think so?”

“Of course! Although, I’m really quite surprised! You certainly don’t _look_ like a farrier…” Dr. Oobleck leans back, glancing him up and down, from the ends of his mismatched blue coat and green cloak to the top of his head.

“Well… you don’t look much like a doctor.”

Dr. Oobleck expels a haughty laugh. “That’s probably true! But perhaps that’s due to the place of my academic study. It was never the most prestigious of places… But then again, I’m not of the most prestigious men. Not yet, anyway.”

“Oh? And where did you study?”

“I studied right here on the soils of the Western Dragon, at the Base of The Horn. Appropriate, I think, to hone one’s intelligence at the very center of the mind—the mind of The Western Dragon itself. But enough about me! How much do you know exactly about Grimm of the more horse-like stature? Anything of note regarding their hooves from what you can tell? Perhaps that’s asking too much of you, but—”

“Oh, Gods, no!” Ozmund starts. Something of pride swells in his chest. “Actually, I do have a few notes if you’re willing to listen to my ramblings… I tend to be— _ahem_ … a little over enthusiastic when it comes to things like hoof structure and hygiene and the like…”

Oobleck grabs him by the shoulders, jerking him forward, so that they’re almost nose to nose. “Tell. Me. _Everything_!”

\-----

“This is your fault!”

“ _My_ fault?! You’re the one flicking people around with your weird, magical powers!”

“Yeah, but… somehow it’s _your_ fault!”

Ironwood rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Fine. It’s all my fault, then. Sure. You know, I wasn’t the one who decided to keep the whole thing a secret.”

“I tried to _save_ your stupid ass, you know!”

“I just don’t get why you couldn’t trust me enough with this, Glynda! Did you seriously think I’d turn you in to get burned at the stake?!”

Glynda pauses. She growls and stomps her foot. “It’s… It’s not like that! I was just… Well…”

Ironwood sighs. “What? You were afraid I’d hate you? You can’t be serious, G—”

“We grew up with stories about how the Witch was responsible for those monsters. We grew up thinking magic was… That is was magic that…” She clenches her hands. “I-I don’t _know_ , okay?!”

Ironwood bows his head, feeling slightly hurt. “You know nothing could ever make me hate you, right? Especially not, well… _this_.”

“I don’t even want them,” Glynda admits. She folds her arms across her chest. “They make me feel like… I could become _her_ … You know? Even the Witch was just a woman once, right? If Ozmund was capable of falling in love with her… Or, well, technically Ozma, I think? Or… maybe they both loved her…?” She makes a face and Ironwood laughs.

“I’m going to be honest, it’s a little fuzzy.”

“I feel bad for him.”

“Why? Cause you shot him a hundred feet into the air?”

“Well, yeah, for that. But also because _he_ never asked for any of this, either. He’s just someone who was just unlucky enough to get a wizard shoved into his head.”

“Like you were unlucky enough to get magic powers?”

“Yeah…”

“Is that why you actually came on this journey, Glynda?”

“I just…” Glynda sighs. “I just want an explanation. That’s all… If I happen to save the world along the way, that’s fine. But I just… I feel like I have to know.”

“What if there isn’t one? Magic seems… difficult. Unexplainable. What if it just… is what it is?”

“I don’t know… Or, well… I just don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing…”

“Well… How about you just do… whatever you feel is right, I guess…”

Glynda turns to him, a soft expression on her face. “I’m sorry, James. About keeping this from you.”

Ironwood feels a spark of surprise go through him. “It’s okay. I just… want you to remember that I do consider you my friend. And I hope you don’t feel like you have to keep things hidden from me. I want us to be able to be honest with each other. You, me, and Oz. Speaking of which, um…” Ironwood glances around at the dense foliage. “Where do you think he landed?”

“Gods, I hope I didn’t kill him,” Glynda mumbles, glancing up at the branches hanging over their heads. “Think he got stuck in a tree somewhere?”

“Maybe. Also, I doubt you’d be able to kill him. If the Witch couldn’t even do it, I doubt you can. I mean… he _is_ a wizard. But, even if you really did kill him… Well, you heard what he said. Apparently, he’ll just come back to life as a different person.”

“Do you think we’d be able to see that happen?”

“I have no idea. It took Ozma a couple hundred years to come back and possess someone. Do you think Ozmund will come back with him? And how long do you think it’d take? Would it really be _years_? _Lifetimes_?”

“I’d rather not think about that. For now, how about we try to keep all of us alive. Which… probably means I shouldn’t use my powers on any of you until I’ve fully gotten the hang of them, I suppose.” Glynda huffs. “Even though it would be fun to throw _you_ over the treetops.”

“Rude.”

Glynda smirks while Ironwood playfully rolls his eyes.

After a moment, they start to pick out voices through the foliage.

“Think that’s Ozmund?” Ironwood whispers, beckoning Glynda along.

“Could just as easily be bandits.”

“Fair point.”

They sneak closer, treading carefully. The voices grow closer, boisterous, and loud. A bought of laughter follows.

“I’d recognize that stupid giggling anywhere!” Glynda growls and leaps out of the foliage, hands on her hips. “GODS, OZ! WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH YOU?! WE WERE WORRIED SICK!”

The duo jerks their heads up at her appearance.

“ _Apricot_!” Ozmund interjects, “ _I’m_ not the one flinging people around with their magic! Also, I figured it’d be a safer bet to stay put, rather than going off wandering through this forest aimlessly.”

“Can’t you, I don’t know, _fly_?”

“ _Levitate_. That’s very different. And I never figured out how Ozma managed to do it.”

“Pardon me, but what are we talking about?” the man next to Ozmund inquires.

“Ah, right! Glynda, James—who I assume is also in that bush somewhere—this is Bartholomew Oobleck.”

“Eh, _Doctor_ —”

“Oh, right. _Doctor_ Bartholomew Oobleck. A great many apricots to you.”

“Hello there! By the way, did you say _magic_ —?”

“OKAY! Time to go!” Ironwood bursts out of the bush and grabs Ozmund and Glynda, dragging them away from the bespectacled man. “It was nice meeting you, eh, Glasses—”

“ _Doctor_ Glasses, if you really must—

“But _we_ ,” Ironwood stresses, “should really be on our way.”

“But me and that fellow behind you were having such a lovely conversation! What did you say your name was again?”

“Oh, it’s—”

“None of your business,” Ironwood cuts in, pulling Ozmund back with him. “Now, if you’ll excuse us.”

He drags both of his companions back through the forest.

Once they’re a safe distance away for Dr. Oobleck to not overhear, Ozmund opens his mouth, “Now you didn’t have to do that, James. He seemed perfectly nice.”

Ironwood sighs and stops, turning to the other man. “I think you’re forgetting that you’re _Warlock Husband_ of the _Witch_ , who posed as a God a few years before? And then let his wife rampage and spread destruction all down The Spine of the Western Dragon? You’re not exactly the most beloved self-proclaimed king on the continent, Ozmund.”

“That was all Ozma,” Ozmund says in a serious tone, “I am _not_ Ozma.”

“No, but you _look_ like him. And you have _his_ magic. So it might be best,” Ironwood yanks the cloak hood over Ozmund’s head, hiding away his shock-white hair, “if you keep a low profile.”

“So what? I can’t even talk to anyone?”

“There’s a chance someone might recognize your face.”

“You know, I had _followers_ as well. Do you forget I—or rather Ozma—ran an entire Kingdom of devoted followers?”

“Yes, but it’s not exactly a very large pool of followers these days. Maybe it used to be, before Salem burned several villages to the ground—maybe even more. I doubt your subjects were very happy about _that_ , _King Ozma_. The people of _my_ village were quite ready to burn you at the stake without question one year ago, even before all of that happened!”

Ozmund sighs, “I suppose that’s true…”

“Yes, and it all sounds really quite interesting,” adds another voice.

Ironwood jumps aside, staring in bewilderment at the green-haired man beside him. “How did—when did—?!”

“Oh, I’ve been here the whole time,” Dr. Oobleck replies.

In a blink, he’s gone, now somehow sitting up high on a tree branch.

“I knew I sensed something off about the three of you! A doctor always knows!” In another flash, he’s darted behind Glynda, who stumbles away from him. “You’re just like me!”

“Like… you?” Ozmund inquires.

Oobleck flashes over to Ozmund, leaning in close to his face. “ _Anomalies_! Perplexing, impossible _anomalies_! Mayhaps even… _abominations_! _Freaks of nature_! _To be hunted down to the point of **extinction**_! **_Extinction_** , I tell you! Why, they very nearly got me too after I was found out!”

“T-that’s what you’re doing right now!” Ozmund starts. “Magic—you’re using magic—the same kind as Glynda! Though this is… remarkably different from what Glynda is capable of.”

“In what way?!” Oobleck flashes back over to Glynda, “How exactly is hers different from mine—whatever this might be? Do tell me everything you know!”

“What it _is_ , is magic,” Ironwood replies. “And you really shouldn’t be using yours so openly.”

Oobleck expels a hearty laugh. “Magic is just another way of saying _unsolved mystery_. And of course, one day that mystery may very well be solved! Then we will no longer call it magic, will we? And to be fair, that one _did_ drop out of the sky. If anyone should learn discretion, it seems to be King Ozma himself. Especially with what’s been happening lately. You’re the most hunted man on The Western Dragon right now. Since the queen announced your betrayal approximately one year ago. I personally didn’t believe it. After all, you’re a man of intellect, the same as I am, King Ozma! You aided in the creation of the school of thought that I graduated from!”

“D-did I?” Ozmund blinks a few times. “I suppose he might have done that… It sounds like something he would do…”

“But back to what you were saying before,” Ironwood interrupts. “Oz is being hunted?”

“Oh, yes, mercilessly,” Oobleck nods. “With the promise of a reward by the Witch herself at stake, bounty hunters and rogues from all over the continent have taken up the task of hunting down King Ozma. And not just him, either. But us strange anomalies as well. We’re being hunted, executed, or exiled in fear that our very presence will summon such troubles, or even catch the attention of the Witch Queen herself. It was hard enough before, but now it’s near impossible.”

“Pardon me,” a worried look crosses Ozmund’s face, “but you make it sound as though there are others like you and Glynda out there?”

“I haven’t met any others myself—besides you lot—but there are many rumors. They say the King of the Great Desert himself carries such magic—that it makes him nye invincible. That’s the direction I was making my way towards. I might have just gotten a little… distracted along the way, with my researching. What of you lot? Where are you headed?”

“Well, we’re actually—”

“Ozmund,” Ironwood cuts in, placing a hand on the slighter man’s shoulder. “Can we talk for a moment?” He sends a glare towards Oobleck. “Alone?”

Ozmund hesitates, then nods. He, Ironwood and Glynda move aside, whispering to each other.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea giving away information to just anyone.”

“But he’s like Glynda. Perhaps he knows more about these ‘anomalies’ that have been occurring. He did say he was researching Grimm. Maybe he’s looking into this as well.”

“We’re on a mission, Oz. And you heard him. There are people out there hunting you—”

“Why would he give away that information if he was hunting Oz himself?” Glynda inquires. “He could have easily stabbed us all multiple times with that speed.” She looks at her palms. “Do you think _I_ can do that? Can he levitate objects, too?”

They glance over at Oobleck, who’s downing something from a thermos. He catches their staring and waves.

“I don’t know about that. But did you hear what he said about that King in the desert? It sounds as though he might be an ‘anomaly’ as well.”

“Or,” Ironwood suggests, “that King has a Relic. It would be rather nice to have a concrete direction to go in. At least until Ozmund has figured out how to track the Relics.”

They glance between each other, silently agreeing on this fact. They part and turn back to Oobleck.

“You said you were heading toward the desert?”

Oobleck nods. “Oh, yes, after I take a short visit to an old friend, I was going to head to Seaburrow.”

“Seaburrow?” Glynda repeats.

“It’s a town by the bay. They have ships there to cross the Still Sea.”

“A place with a name. You rarely hear of that. Naming places is quite taboo.”

“The people in charge are really quite cocky, you could say. They don’t make for very nice company. But, well, if you have something of value to them, they’ll help you cross the sea.”

Ironwood furrows his brows. “This sounds more like you’re dealing with—”

“Pirates,” Oobleck pushes his glasses up his nose. “Believe me, if there was another way to cross the Still Sea, I would take it. Unfortunately, there isn’t.”

“What on Remnant could you possibly offer pirates?” Glynda inquires. “You don’t seem to be holding anything of value on you.”

“That would be why I’m stopping at my friend’s house before I start heading in that direction. He has a few valuables that he’s willing to give away. Why, I think you actually might know of him!” Oobleck zips behind Ironwood, observing the shotgun strapped to his back. “I’m guessing he gave away old Grimm Slayer here? That’s a shame, but it seems to be in good hands now!”

Ironwood, Glynda, and Ozmund glance between each other. Ironwood cocks a brow. “Where did you say this friend lived again?”

\----

“Oh dear,” Oobleck says, looking upon the destroyed house of the farm. “It seems quite the tragedy has happened here.”

“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news,” Ozmund cuts in. “But… Your friend is… Well… he’s…”

“Yes indeed. The old man appears to be gone.” Oobleck exits the house, heading down towards the empty stable.

This time, Ironwood attempts to say something, “We don’t want you to be alarmed, um, but—”

The man flicks away in a blur. Suddenly, he’s down by the shed, throwing the door.

Ironwood, Oz, and Glynda quietly approach from behind him, staring down at the body.

Oobleck shakes his head. “Good heavens…”

“Barty, I—”

“No, no. You needn’t be sorry. That old, fat boar had it coming.”

Ozmund stares at him in stunned glance. “O-oh. Were you… Not very close friends…?”

“What?” Oobleck abruptly turns to him.

“You just… you just called your dead friend an old, fat boar?”

Oobleck stares at him for a still moment, then suddenly jumps. “OH GOODNESS! YOU THINK THAT’S PORT?!”

“ISN’T IT?!” Ozmund inquires.

Oobleck suddenly starts stuttering and tripping over himself. “NO! THAT’S—HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY THINK THAT’S—GOOD GODS! NO, THAT’S A BOAR! A LITERAL WILD BOAR! PORT KEPT IT AS A PET FOR SOME UNGODLY REASON! MY WORD, I SEEM TO HAVE MADE A TERRIBLE FIRST IMPRESSION!”

“Hey, he’s right…” Glynda, leans forward a little more. “Ozmund, that _is_ a boar! How could you not tell that was an animal and not a person?!”

“I-it’s a corpse!” Ozmund snaps. “How closely do _you_ look at corpses?!”

“Close enough to know if it’s a person or a boar!”

“How can you tell?! It’s a mess of flesh and bones and flies at this point!”

“It’s got hooves, Ozmund. You know. The thing you _specialize_ in?!”

Ozmund visibly fumbles with his hands for words, “I, UH, UM, I— _APRACOTS_!”

Ironwood sighs, patting his shoulder. “You’re a good man, Oz. Just not very perceptive.”

“It appears there’s been a bit of confusion here,” Oobleck notes. “Why don’t I catch you all up to speed?”

Oobleck pushes them back up to the house. He yanks something off of the door.

“Here. Port left a note detailing everything. Didn’t you see it when you came in?”

“We were a little distracted by the absolute mess on the ground!” Glynda snaps. “How could we have possibly noticed a note on the door?!”

“ _I_ noticed it,” Oobleck replies, “but then again, I know my friend better than anyone, and he’d never perish to any Grimm—oh no, no, no! And he always, always leaves notes on doors to explain why he’s not home.”

“May I see that?” Ozmund inquiries. Oobleck hands him the note and he reads it.

_BARTY!_

_I know we were supposed to meet this week, but something came up. Feel free to take what you need, and I’ll meet you at Seaport. Also, Port Jr. went rabid and destroyed the house. Had to put the old boy out of his misery. He’s in the shed. I’ll fix everything when I get back. Probably. Maybe._

_Also, also, also, please feed Port the Horse while I’m gone._

_By the way, this reminds me of a story._

_Do you remember that time I…?_

Ozmund pauses. He shuffles through eight pages of notes that go front to back, glimpsing over them. “There’s… a _lot_ of notes, actually…”

“Why is that calligraphy so unabashedly impressive?” Glynda mumbles. “I’m a little jealous.”

“Indeed! Port has always had excellent handwriting,” Oobleck replies.

“Port left a horse unfed and without water for a number of weeks.” Ozmund jerks his head up with a sharp look in his eyes. “Port is very unlucky he’s not that corpse in the shed. When I get my hands on him, I’m gonna—!”

Ironwood pushes him back. “Hey, how about you _don’t_ , though?”

“Animal cruelty should be punished with cruelty,” Ozmund snarls.

“Ah, that bit was actually in this other note!” Oobleck starts, pointing to the other side of the door.

“How many notes did you two miss?!”

“You don’t have room to talk, Oz!” Glynda snaps.

“Yes, please commit the boar corpse to memory so that this doesn’t happen again!” Ironwood adds.

“I already said apricots, what more do you want from me?!” Ozmund snatches the note from Oobleck.

_BARTY!_

_A friend of mine is dropping off a mare. She should have arrived the day you get there. Poor thing was severely underfed, and her hooves in terrible condition._

_I’d take her on the journey with me, but I haven’t been able to look over her yet and I fear she won’t strong enough to make it. If she seems strong enough, feel free to bring her along! If not, release the old girl into the pasture and fill up the troughs. She should be just fine until I get back!_

_Why, the thought of horses reminds me of this time I…_

Ten more pages follow suit.

Ozmund lowers the notes, scowling. “Still seems rather _irresponsible_ to get a horse and then not be here the day it arrives! To not make sure it’s in good health before leaving on an extended journey is the most offensive part of all of this! With her hooves in the condition they were in, releasing her into the pasture unattended could have been dangerous and lead to all sorts of—!”

“Ozmund,” Ironwood cuts in, peeling the wizard away from Oobleck, “he’s really not the man you should be yelling at.”

“Apricots. I’m just… very passionate about this subject!”

“May I inquire why you keep saying that word?” Oobleck inquires. “Is it a vocal tic of some kind?”

“Ah… apricots. No. I could explain it, but that would require me saying the word _apricots_ and James said that every time I thought about saying the word _apricots_ , that I should just say _apricots_ instead, so… _Apricots_.”

“He apologizes too much,” Ironwood replies. “I was hoping that this would demonstrate just how many times he says it in one day. Make him more aware of it, I suppose. Is it working, Oz?”

“It’s really quite the eye-opener, if I might be honest…”

Oobleck takes the notes and places them carefully into his satchel. “If the three of you were aiming to head to Seaport as well, how’s about we all go together? But only so long as you promise not to kill my friend over horse shenanigans. He’s… forgetful, at times, I admit.”

Ozmund fumes. “ _Forgetful_ —?!”

Ironwood smacks a hand over his mouth, dragging the wizard back a few more steps.

“That sounds reasonable,” Glynda replies. “Just one problem: we don’t exactly have anything to give to pirates.”

“Nonsense!” Oobleck pushes up his glasses with a smirk. “You’ve got plenty! You just don’t know it yet! Just let me gather a few things and we can be off!”

Oobleck disappears inside the house while Ozmund sulks over to Yellowbrick, hugging the mare’s neck. “ _I’d_ never forget you, Yellow! I’ve already adopted one poor soul; I will gladly rescue another!”

“You know, I never quite pieced together how crazy you are, Oz,” Ironwood mutters. “And I do mean that in an endearing sort of way.”

Ozmund places a hand on his chest. “I’m a little strange, I admit. By the way. Glynda?”

Glynda raises a brow. “Yes?”

“Apricots, my dear.”

“Wha—AGGGGGGGH!!!”

Suddenly, Glynda goes flying through the air.

Ironwood sends Ozmund a glare and he shrugs.

“What? She’ll come back down. Eventually… Hopefully, she has a good landing strategy.”

"What did I say? Strange? Actually, Oz, you're more of a wild ass."

Ozmund laughs until he has tears in his eyes.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Carefully places the last band-aid on this poor chapter*  
> Okok, I'm still not COMPLETELY happy with this. My curse is writing too many scenes where people just kind of stand around talking (I blame my growing up with Red vs Blue ;P )  
> Also, apparently next, our team must deal with pirates, cross the Still Sea, and then find the King of the Desert! Does he truly have a Relic, or is this something else? Find out next time! (And i mean that to both you and myself as the author. Idk where this is going. We're past my draft at this point. This is the furthest I've ever taken a story, soooo we're in this sinking ship together, man)  
> Imma just puff up my chest and feign confidence....  
> Yeah.  
> That sounds like a plan....


	9. The Puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Salem gives a task to her newest creation.

Breath.

It was not even sure it needed to breathe until it did. And even then, it was hard to know if it did it because it needed to in order to live, or if it did it out of pure reflex.

Mother calls it “Her Hound.”

She tells the girl next to her—a servant of some kind—that “he’ll grow bigger and stronger with time.”

For now, “he” was, in her words, _a little underwhelming_.

The Hound didn’t take much offence.

He didn’t really mind. Mother was the one who created him. She was the first face he ever saw, and the first voice he ever heard. So she could say whatever she liked about him, and he wouldn't mind.

The servant, however, was not allowed the same privilege.

“Alright, puppy,” says the girl as she finishes cleaning up the carpets, “that’s the last time you’re going to drip your Grimm goo all over this carpet! Understand?”

The Hound huffs. As if he would listen to a servant. Mother didn’t mind if he stained the carpets. Mother was kind to him. And he meant more to her than this “Cinder” person.

The Hound scampers off down the hallway, making sure to leave a trail of black pawprints behind for The Cinder to clean up.

He runs right into Mother, much to his glee. She picks him up, holding him to her chest.

“I have a job for you, My Hound,” she says in a pleased voice.

The Hound yips, tail wagging.

How he does like to please The Mother!

Mother holds up a piece of cloth, which he automatically sniffs out of curiosity.

“I need you to find who this scent belongs to. I have something I need you to give to him, understand?”

The Hound barks and Mother places him down. She hands him a glowing, red ball and he takes it into his mouth. Red lightning and smoke crackles inside of the orb. He crunches down on it and it makes a satisfying scream.

“Be careful with it. All I need you to do is stay out of sight and touch the man I’m looking for with it on the chest. Off you go, now.”

The Hound immediately scampers away, back down the hallway he had come from.

“UGH! WHAT DID I JUST SAY?!” The Cinder yells after him as he darts past her, leaving more goopy prints.

He swerves towards an open window to avoid the guards, per Mother’s instructions. Mother called the guards “incompetent” and “easy to control." But there would be a lot of questions from those bumbling humans if he were to suddenly pop up around the castle, so he stayed out of sight.

Even so, sometimes The Hound couldn’t help but to play with them.

He was a shadow on the walls. A ghost that haunted them at night.

He was fairly certain Mother knew of his whereabouts. She knew everything. She was _The Mother_ , after all. But she never scolded him for it. The rumors of ghost dogs in the castle corridors appeared to amuse her as much as it did him.

And he did love amusing Mother. She gave him extra pats and scratches when she was amused.

But Mother had just given him a task, so he would torment the guards another day.

The Hound slips through the window and drops the three stories down.

His gooey body plops on the ground, the impact turning his gelatinous form flat for a moment. He easily pops back up, though, and continues to scamper out into the forest, following the scent Mother had given him.

\------

His short legs can only carry him so fast, but, after a few days of nonstop running and tracking, The Hound arrives at a large, white house. It isn’t as large as Mother’s, but that’s to be expected. Mother is grand and perfect, and so all of her things were grand and perfect, too. Most especially her home.

The Hound races towards the house, slipping through the fence and into the yard.

He ducks behind a potted plant just before a human steps past.

“Whitley! Whitley, darling, no! Keep that bug out of your mouth!”

A woman—who had white hair the same as Mother’s, but Mother’s was better and far more impressive because Mother was better and more impressive at everything she did—goes over to another white-haired person. This person was much, much smaller in comparison.

The Cinder probably would have called it a “puppy”, too, but its name was apparently Whitley.

This “Whitley” and the bigger human were not who he was searching for, however. Although, they did smell a small _fraction_ like who he was hunting.

He abandons The Woman and The Whitley and instead follows his nose towards the far stronger source of the smell.

This human was also very tiny. Another puppy human. Was this who Mother was searching for?

The Hound glances around. There was a bigger human man cutting back some hedges, not at all paying attention to him. Two other white haired puppies were also here, but they were busy kicking a ball back and forth. And the woman was dealing with The Whitley. So that left this little human puppy all alone.

The Hound sneaks closer to the human puppy.

It looks up at him with big, greenish eyes. It doesn’t seem startled or scared by him.

Foolish human puppy!

He was very, very scary! Or at least he would be. Mother said so.

The little puppy gets up onto two legs and walks unsteadily towards him.

The Hound drops his ball at his paws and allows it to come in close. He sniffs at the puppy’s chest.

Yes! The smell! It was here!

But it wasn’t coming from the puppy itself. Instead, the smell was coming off its clothes.

How annoying.

The Hound huffs, readying to depart, before the puppy reaches out and wraps its arms him around the neck.

The Hound growls for a second. Only Mother gets to hold him and pet him—only her!

But… he has to admit, this is kind of nice, too.

The puppy doesn’t hug him for long. It lets go and backs up with a giggle. The Hound licks its cheek, leaving a black smudge, just before the puppy is out of reach.

“Bye, bye!” it says, waving a pudgy little hand at him as it totters away.

The Hound opens its muzzle, gurgling back, “bye, bye.”

He picks up the glowing ball mother had given him and continues on his way.

\----

The Hound runs along a gravel path, following the smell of the person was tracking down for Mother.

He comes across a farm and slips under the fence.

Nothing here. Just an old, dead boar. The Hound takes a bite out of the corpse. Not because he needs to eat, rather more because he felt like it would taste interesting.

It didn’t taste like anything, though. It was like ash in his mouth, despite the putrid smell coming off of the corpse.

Strange. He was certain he remembered having taste once…

Oh well.

The Hound zips away, heading back down the path.

By the time he finds who he’s searching for, a whole night has passed. The trickles of morning light were coming in from over the horizon.

The Hound has never been outside the castle before to see a sunrise.

Some part of him stirs with a memory that he can’t quite reach.

Hot chocolate. Child’s laughter. Mother is there. She smiles at him and his siblings—or at least he believes they are his siblings. Mother is happy. And he is warm. And he is safe.

But another memory blurs with the current.

A man at a worktable. Shiny trinkets. A shop he’s meant to guard. Toto? Something about that name…

These memories only grow stronger as he approaches the group.

The person he’s meant to find is here. The Hound can smell the human on the wind. The scent is strong and unmistakable. It _is_ him! The man he's meant to find! He stares at the human, the memory of hot coco and giggling blaring in his head.

Another man walks past. The “Toto” man.

Was that its name?

Toto?

The Toto walks over to the other familiar man, who’s chatting with another human with wild, green hair.

The sight of the familiar man shapes a familiar word on The Hound’s tongue.

“Papa?” Perhaps these were their names.

The Toto and The Papa—these two strangely familiar people from his distant memories, of which he seemed unable to completely ignore.

But Mother had given him a task. Mother had made him, and she was always kind to him. And she had sent him out to do a job. And he didn’t want to displease her—of course not.

So the Hound shakes these strange feelings and memories.

He sneaks towards the two men through the underbrush. He quite nearly reaches The Papa when a blond human calls “Can you two quit blabbering so we can keep moving?”

“Alright, Glynda, we’re coming,” The Papa says. He and the green haired human keep their conversation going as they walk.

The Hound decides to hang back and watch them for a while.

He wasn’t in a rush. Mother didn’t tell him when to be back, so why not see where this was going?

\-----

The smell of salt hits him long before he sees the ocean itself.

This city was crawling with humans, who smelled of sweat and fish and seawater. The pungent odor of chum and old wood and rope and tuna makes The Hound shakes his head in repulsion.

The only good part about humans was the clutter they left, a clutter he could easily maneuver through and hide behind as he follows the group into town.

The Hound lies low, waiting for his opportunity to strike. He was fairly certain he knew what the ball he was holding was. He’d watched Mother work tirelessly over it for months. It was made of bone, black Grimm tar, lightening from a furious storm, and drops of her own blood.

Mother had put her heart and soul into it. So when she gave him this task, he knew it would be important.

The Hound squashes himself between two barrels of fish, waiting for the right moment.

\-----

Ozmund had a strange feeling of being watched. Actually, his whole body had been buzzing with anxiety since they’d gotten back on the road.

Maybe it was the smell of the sea or being in the presence of so many other people. He’d never seen so many in one place before…

Ozmund peeks up from under the hood of his cloak, glimpsing the crowd moving around them.

Ironwood leans over to whisper, “Just keep your head down. We’ll try to get this over with as quickly as possible. We just need to keep a low profile—”

“BARTY!” someone yells over the crowd. A man with a big, white mustache waves his arms at them from across the road. “I’M OVER HERE, BARTY!”

Oobleck jumps up, waving his own arms. “PORT!” he yells back. “HOW HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU OLD BADGER?!”

“IN TIP-TOP SHAPE AS ALWAYS, OF COURSE! DID YOU READ MY NOTES?!”

“ALL THIRTY PAGES, MY FRIEND! STELLAR, AS ALWAYS!”

The two fall into boisterous laughter that seems to echo throughout the whole town.

“So much for stealth,” Glynda mutters.

They cross the road and Oobleck and Port share a friendly embrace.

“By the way, Port! You should meet my traveling companions! Glynda Goodwitch, James Ironwood, and the man hissing under his breath about horses is Ozmund. He’s decided to take that mare you took in.”

“Oh, how wonderful!" Port nods. "Good man! She could use a good home!”

Ozmund replies with something fowl in a long-dead tongue under his breath. “Choked by his horse’s own reins is a poor equestrian.”

“Foolish is the man who thinks he can speak in tongues without first knowing if others can listen in,” Oobleck replies in the same dead tongue. Of course his pronunciation was flawless.

Ozmund’s face blazed with embarrassment. “S-sorry…”

“What’d I say, Oz?” Ironwood inquires.

“No, no,” Oobleck replies, “in that instance, I actually did want an apology. He thought I wouldn’t know Old Folkspeak! How insulting! It’s only what all of the most influential books in the world are written in! Why, most of the words in our language are—!”

“Alright, alright,” Ironwood cuts in. “Before _you_ start rambling and _he_ starts telling a seven-hour story and _Ozmund_ starts going off about horses, and _Glynda_ starts telling everyone to shut up, I need to know what the plan is. How are we going to convince a bunch of pirates to let us on their ship so we can cross the sea?”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Oobleck points a finger at Ozmund. “Remove your coat, please.”

“My coat?” Ozmund inquires. He skeptically removes it and hands it to Oobleck.

“And that shirt underneath as well.”

“Oh—?”

“And your boots, too.”

“Are you having me strip naked in the middle of town?!”

“Depends, what’s the stitching like on your undergarments?”

Ozmund hides behind Ironwood. “He’s a pervert, James, I should’ve known! You’re right. I’ll never trust anyone ever again—!”

“I’m not a pervert! Now do you want my assistance, or don’t you?”

“Pardon, but… what do you need all of Ozmund’s clothes for?” Glynda inquires.

“You mean you haven’t noticed?” Oobleck turns the coat in his hands around and shows the buttons. “Do you see the marks on the buttons?”

“The flowers?”

“Lotuses.”

“Is that impressive in some way?”

“It’s not about the craftsmanship of the clothes themselves. His clothes are interwoven with a substance people have started calling Dust. There’s only a handful who are capable of this kind of work. The Schnee Dust Company only just recently started weaving Dust into clothing, though not very successfully. There is a village of people who’ve been doing it long before. In a town called Kuroyuri. That is where these clothes are from, and there are those who would kill to get their hands on them.”

“That’s right!” Ozmund starts. “I remember Ozma telling me about it once. About people who weave a substance into their clothing that can keep them safe from fire and resilient to the cold. He said they didn’t typically give away clothing, especially not to outsiders. However, Salem winded up striking a deal with them. If they supplied her with clothing, then she would make sure The Grimm never attacked their village. I had completely forgotten about it until now...”

“Ah, very interesting!” Oobleck pushes up his glasses and smiles. “Now, with that out of the way, please exercise haste and strip.”

“Yes,” Glynda teases, “hurry and get naked, Ozmund. We can all watch.”

Port strokes his moustache. “Hmm. All of this talk of disrobing reminds me of a time from my youth—”

“Perverts!" Ozmund hides back behind Ironwood. "They’re all perverts!”

Ironwood laughs. “C’mon, Oz. We can go get you some new clothes for you to change into.”

"Please do!" Ozmund nods at him.

Ironwood turns to Glynda, “Gimme your coin purse, G.”

“What, no way! Get your own coin purse!”

“Do you want to get on the ship or not?”

Glynda pauses. She groans and rolls her eyes. “ _Fine_.”

Ironwood catches the coin purse swiftly. “I’ll pay you back.”

“Oh, please. I’ve heard _that_ before.”

Ozmund follows Ironwood back across the road, that strange feeling of being watched coming back. He glances around anxiously.

Ironwood puts a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Oz. Nobody _really_ wants to see you without your clothes on.”

“It’s not that, it’s…” Ozmund shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“I feel as though… we’re being followed.”

“This is a town of pirates and you’re apparently wearing the clothing equivalent of magical diamonds. So we probably are.”

“Hm… You’re probably right.” Ozmund heads inside a shop with Ironwood.

He picks out some simple clothes. A white shirt, a pair of brown pants, and some boots. They remind him of his time as a simple farrier.

“They wouldn’t happen to have gloves, would they?”

“What for?”

“Oh. Um…” Ozmund lifts his hand. “To cover my prosthetics.”

Ironwood blinks in surprise at the prosthetic pointer and middle fingers. Half of both his thumbs appear to be missing as well. “That’s incredible.” He looks over the wizard's hand with a critical eye. “It looks like the metal is fused to your skin.”

“It is. I lost them after an energy blast backfired.”

“Really? You injured yourself with your own magic?”

“Magic can be unstable and dangerous. Spellcasters back in the day used objects to channel their magic through. Ozma used to have a staff, but that got lost when Salem attacked us. I use my cane now. Objects can improve the focus of the magic and the output. Like Glynda when she shot me over the treetops. Had she put that much magic through her hands instead of channeling it through her crop—”

“Would she have been hurt?” Ironwood frets.

“Her magic seems different than mine. More… muted. It could have, but I’m not entirely sure. Anyway, after I lost my fingers, Ozma used magic to replace them with the metal. I can move them, but I can’t actually feel them.”

“Still. That’s amazing.”

“They're enchanted so I can do this!” Ozmund runs some magic through his hand and the metal turns sharp and pointed, like claws. “Fun, right? I always have a built-in weapon.”

“Somehow, you just got a little bit scarier, Oz.”

Ozmund laughs.

“Anyway. Gloves.”

Ozmund picks out a pair of black gloves and they head to the front to pay. He gets dressed in a spare room and hands his other clothes to Ironwood, though he keeps his cloak.

They step out of the shop and that strange feeling comes back. The feeling of being watched.

It didn’t feel human… But then again, it didn’t particularly feel like a Grimm, either…

Ozmund takes a moment, sensing the air with his magic instead. It was strange. Like the aftertaste of something he couldn't quite distinguish. Familiar, yet... completely foreign. But that familiarity.

He focuses more on that part.

It was like... It almost felt like... Another magic user.

But not quite. Like Glynda or Oobleck, this was muted, and yet it was completely different in almost every way. It was a pure magic atop something dark and wicked.

Like a Grimm. But also just like-

Ozmund stops right in his tracks.

Ironwood turns back to him. “Oz? What is it—?”

He jerks his head around, toward a shadowy space among the crates of fish.

Two glowing red eyes stare back at him. His brain went on full alert.

A Grimm? No. It felt like one. But it was _wrong._

So, so _wrong._

Because some other part of it-that hauntingly familiar part of it was-

It's magic felt just like-

A face of bone white slips out of the shadows.

The beast opens its maws.

“Pa… pa…”

Ozmund’s hands go to his mouth to withhold a shriek of horror. _No_. He shakes his head, trembling. _No, she didn’t—she wouldn’t have—not this! Anything, anything but this!_

“Oz?” A heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

The creature slips away.

Ozmund scrambles for it.

“Iclyn!” he cries, diving toward the space between the crates. “ _Iclyn_!”

Ironwood pulls him back, “Oz, what in the world are you doing—?!”

Ozmund wrestles out of his grip. “GET OFF OF ME! I HAVE TO FIND HER! _ICLYN_!” He gets free and runs after the shadow dashing away behind crates and vendors.

“OZ!”

He can feel Ironwood running after him, but he doesn’t care. He _sensed_ her—he _felt_ her—she was _there_!

He tears down the street, following the shadow. He leaps over crates, pushes past the crowd. He didn’t care what was in his way—what or who he toppled—he just knew he had to _get to her!_

“ICLYN!”

He leaps over a crate. Tumbles over a fallen crate of apples. He lands hard on the pavement, his jaw knocking against it. He tastes blood. 

But his eyes focus on the prize ahead of him as it disappears behind a stall.

“ICLYN-!”

“OZ!" Ironwood catches up to him, grabbing him before he can run off again.

"LET GO OF ME!"

"OZ, WAIT-!"

"LET GO-!"

"YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHAT'S WRONG-!"

" **IT'S MY DAUGHTER, JAMES**!"

Ironwood freezes, eyes wide.

"Please," Ozmund begs in a softer voice, his breath catching in sobs, "It's my daughter!"

Ironwood releases him.

Immediately, Ozmund pulls away and keeps running.

He had to find her again! He wouldn't lose her-not again!

He had to find her! He just—he just had to—!

Suddenly, crates and ships and people become trees and bushes. He glances around him desperately, left and right, up and down.

Heaving, he sucks in enough air into his burning lungs and cups his hands over his mouth, screaming, “ICLYYYN!”

The silence is eerie. It makes his skin crawl. His brain is going a thousand miles a second. Filled with so many horrible thoughts and terrors.

“ _ICLYYYN_!”

_Snap_.

Ozmund turns and sees a shape and a glowing red light coming at him.

A force hits him in the chest, and he goes stumbling backwards.

The glowing orb sinks into his flesh and bone.

Blaring white agony courses through him as he’s consumed by red lightning.

He watches as a little, black figure darts away into the underbrush.

\----

Mother will be so pleased! So very pleased!

The Papa falls onto the ground, convulsing in agony, trying to pull out the red orb. However, it’s sunk sharp little, needle-like appendages into his chest. It would not come out easily.

The Hound yips with joy and rushes away into the forest.

What a fun game of tag that was!

Joy! What joy Mother will feel!

Now to hide and watch the aftermath!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got kinda caught up in other projects, so a great many apricots for the long wait! But at last, here is the next chapter!!  
> Also, hmm... I wonder if that magical ability to fuse metal to skin will ever come in handy.....  
> ......  
> Heya. Ironwood. Wanna lose a limb or two? :)))


End file.
